


The Curious Case of Mr. Bouchard and Mr. Magnus

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Background Exploration/Character Work, Established Relationship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, LonelyEyes, M/M, Plotty, Pre-Canon, Sort of a ... Jekyll and Hyde AU except both aren't great, Villains, Work-wide CW: unhealthy relationships and evil old men POV, minor fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29541090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: [Spoilers up to MAG160]The time had come to switch into another body, and Jonah Magnus thought he'd never find someone as suitable as Elias Bouchard. During his convalescence at the Lukas-owned Penbrooke Manor, Jonah is horrified to realize that Elias Bouchard is not dead yet. The brat is able to push to the forefront of his mind and take control, seemingly at random. Even worse, his husband has arrived and seems disinclined to leave. Caught between the threat in his mind and the threat in his bed, Jonah must figure out a way to control both - or risk losing what he's worked so hard to achieve.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CWs will be given at the start of a chapter. As a general note - this work is from the POV of Jonah Magnus, and he's a very bad guy with a very unhealthy relationship with fellow very bad guy Peter Lukas. General work-wide CW: relationship malfunction and manipulation on both sides.
> 
> CW:  
> Discussions of murder and manipulation  
> Brief discussions of eye anatomy

There were a few benefits to associating with the Lukases, brought on entirely by their immeasurable wealth and lack of foresight. These benefits could be easily taken advantage of with the right skillset: namely, knowledge and determination. Two things that Jonah Magnus had in ample supply. Well, intelligence wouldn’t hurt either, but Jonah was of the opinion that a particularly determined dog could outsmart the Lukases if it really put its mind to it.

The benefit he was reaping today was the Lukases’ tendency to acquire property on every halfway isolated bit of land that they found. Most of these places sat, lavish and empty, a tabernacle to the Lonely in themselves. Every once in a while, an elderly relative or standoffish cousin would be booted there to live the rest of their days. Fortunately, his destination was utterly empty, a fact that he’d been checking every few minutes since he’d departed London.

Looking up at it now, Jonah thought it a pity that Lukases were never much into reading. Everyone before Nathaniel had been functionally illiterate, and even the current heir wasn’t precisely a bookworm. Perhaps if they were, they would understand how this place looked like the cover page of an Agatha Christie murder mystery.

An oppressive old stone castle set at the top of a menacing cliff, Penbrooke Manor had the peculiar quality of looking decently well-kept but entirely abandoned. Foreboding turrets rose to meet heavy clouds. The highest tower at all even broke through the wisps of fog, disappearing into the sky entirely. The entire side of the castle was starting to succumb to encroaching ivy. One could practically hear the piercing wails of the hypothetical murder victim.

Not precisely the warmest place he’d ever lodged in, but it would certainly do.

Slightly breathless, Jonah’s exhale came out in rapid puffs of frost. He had had to get himself over from the village on the mainland and speedboats weren’t something that he had a lot of time with. He tied it off at the small dock that jutted out from the island. Thankfully, the waters had been calm on the journey, and Jonah wrote that off as a welcome symptom of the Lonely. He hoped they would remain so on his journey back.

Jonah withdrew his hands from his hoodie pockets and stared up at the old place that he would be staying until this little _embarrassment_ passed on.

There had been the urge to show up in the refinement that he was used to. Elias Bouchard had had two decent-fitting suits that Jonah brought along in his bag, though he would be scrapping the whole wardrobe when he returned. Start from scratch, contact his tailor, get some appointments set. As a tuft of Jonah’s hair fell in front of his eyes, he frowned and recalled that he would need to contact his stylist, as well. He hated the modern tendency for longer hair.

But there was nothing that sowed more distrust in a village than a smarmy young man showing up in a tailored suit. Nothing sowed _less_ distrust than an excitable university student showing up and prattling on about the rich and vivid history of the area. Add on a bulging messenger bag and a camera thrown about his neck and he doubted that any of them would suspect.

Not that there was anything _to_ suspect, of course, but Jonah would prefer to be careful. The last thing he needed was one of the villagers getting too curious and setting out to find him, ostensibly under the kind, sweet pretense of “making sure he was alright”. Thank god they hadn’t looked at him too carefully. There was still blood under his fingernails from where the damn fool had tried to defend himself.

Eurgh, this hoodie felt like he was wearing his _nightclothes._ It was a baggy and, every so often, Jonah swore that he could smell marijuana. The standards for male dress had fallen so far. Jonah stuffed his hands back in the front pocket and started up the long hill leading up to Penbrooke Manor. The cliffs were beautiful things, towering up above a sandy white shoreline, but Jonah didn’t have much urge to explore. Honestly, he was exhausted. The journey had been arduous and he still felt uncomfortable in his own skin.

The interior was what he’d come to expect of a Lukas property: gothic, creaky, and cluttered. Some Lukas ancestor had discovered that being alone in a room crowded with furniture and decorations was more disconcerting than being alone in a room completely bare, and had decided to decorate appropriately. Jonah passed by a suit of armor that had been archaic even in _his_ time, gently treading his way through narrow corridors and thick dusty carpets. Paintings that were no more than monochrome blurs of their objects hung from every available space. Jonah was surprised by the number of mirrors he saw, but why wouldn’t the Lukas family want you to know how alone you were from several different angles?

Every so often, sunlight (or whatever could break through the cloud cover, anyhow) presented the most unusual visual illusion – that of giving the adjoining room a warm glow, much like the one given off by a lamp or fireplace. Whichever glassblower the Lukases had commissioned for these windows had done an _excellent_ job, Jonah begrudgingly admitted.

He trudged up the stairs, his bag weighing him down. The camera felt like an anvil. At least he wasn’t suffering from age-related pains any longer. Still, he hated that he even had to be here in the first place.

As much as Jonah would want it to, and for as much as Jonah had researched the practice, shifting into another body wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch. The mind of the donor could exist for days, even a week, before it was fully taken over. In its throes of death, Jonah could temporarily lose control of his donor’s body while his donor’s brain commanded its actions. Usually it was not for any longer than a second or two, but unfortunately, times were no longer ‘usual’. Christ, the last time he’d switched – into the body of James Wright – the old fucking fool had gotten so far as to knock on a neighbor’s door for assistance.

Between James Wright’s haggard, bloody appearance and the absolute nonsense he was spewing … well, Jonah was fortunate that the neighbor had been so frightened that the door had been slammed in his face. Seeing your neighbor with bleeding eyes would be rather intimidating, Jonah supposed. He’d been able to resume control from there.

Still, it had been close, and Jonah was not one to risk matters if he could help it. This little excursion was likely overkill in terms of protecting himself. The old Elias Bouchard had behaved himself in the car, on the train, in the boat, but Jonah could not shake the lingering feeling that Elias was only in a temporary state of shock. He could still feel the little man there in the back of his mind, scrabbling and whimpering like a dog. Soon he would come to his senses and fight back – or the old Elias Bouchard would die in the back of his skull, cringing like a coward.

It didn’t make one whit of difference to Jonah. He was confident that he would not be out of control long enough for the boy to pilot a ship all the way back to the village, and there was nobody he could contact here.

So let him have his tantrums. Jonah decided. This was the first “holiday” he’d taken in over a hundred years.

Meanwhile, in London, the last domino had fallen in Jonah’s scheme. It had started with remarking to the young Elias Bouchard that he would be retiring soon, would need a replacement, and Elias Bouchard was in the running due to his considerable work ethic ( _god,_ how the boy could believe him, he’d never know). Elias Bouchard must have mentioned it to his father, who in turn made a sizable donation to the Magnus Institute (for ‘continued appreciation in paranormal investigation’).

That Elias Bouchard’s father sent his son another letter stating that he considered the Magnus Institute a ‘load of bunk’ and that Elias could _really_ do better, but if this was all that he could manage to work for then he _supposed_ he’d help ease things along … well. Jonah politely ignored knowing that piece of confidential information.

James Wright’s body would be found in his office with no signs of physical injury, eyes shut. That his eyes were a different color would perturb nobody. Please, this was hardly a _mystery novel,_ where mysterious twins with strange eyes showed up out of the blue. James’ different eye color could be explained by any number of clerical errors in his identification and licenses. At the beginning of all this, Jonah had agonized over it – contacts, bribing license clerks, even damaging the eyes beyond recognition. Then he’d realized the average individual was about as competent as a dead fish.

His will would be released in the forthcoming days, in which he formally announced Elias Bouchard as his successor.

The news would shock all of the workers of the Magnus Institute. Elias Bouchard wasn’t a _terrible_ worker, per se, but he was arrogant and condescending and hard to relate to. He had no real skill at the job, and – some salacious breakroom gossip presumed – had once smoked up in the alley next to the Institute after work.

Then again, the same people would gossip, that was how it went, wasn’t it? James Wright had sent out an email thanking the Bouchard family for their generous contribution, so _obviously_ that was how Elias had gotten the job. Nepotists these days, they would grumble. Talent didn’t count half as far as money did. How much money did the Head of the Magnus Institute position go for?

And ‘Elias’ would return as a changed man. Jonah would ring up Elias’ father and say that this new position really changed something in him, granted him a responsibility that he’d never known before. It would wholeheartedly explain Jonah’s drastically different behavior and appearance, regardless. He was just rising to meet the expectations of the position. He was going to make James Wright _proud,_ Jonah would insist.

Of course, Jonah could never see Elias’ father or mother again. Part of him wanted to look them dead in the face and see their reactions. It always struck him as funny, the leaps and bounds people would make to wave away someone’s brand new eye color. Even family could be easily convinced that they’d just gotten it wrong all these years. But, no. He would gratefully accept his new father’s donations and wish them well every now and then, perhaps show up to the funeral. There would be no real love lost. Elias’ father always wanted a son he could hold at arm’s distance. In that way, Jonah had done him a gift by brutally murdering Elias.

There were very many bedrooms in this old mansion, and Jonah chose one of the first ones he could find. It was a master, with a large comfortable four-poster bed. The curtains on the bed could be pulled back to give the slumberer a sense of privacy, and _oh,_ how nice that sounded. A dresser with a fantastically gigantic mirror attached stood against one wall, an empty desk next to another. A door led to the bathroom.

This would do. It would have to, Jonah was _exhausted._ His limbs cried out for somewhere comfortable. Last night, he had asked Elias to stay late to discuss the duties of the Head of the Institute. An impromptu training session. He had even poured Elias a glass of good brandy as a gesture of goodwill. Of course, there’d been a sedative in it. Jonah had dragged him down to the tunnels and gouged Elias’ eyes out with little fanfare. Thankfully, Elias hadn’t woken until the very end. With no eyes, Elias hadn’t even been sure who’d attacked him until Jonah snarled at him to be quiet. Then, of course, Jonah had done his own.

To Jonah’s surprise, Elias had re-taken control of his mind almost immediately. He presumed it was the sheer adrenaline kicking in. In his terror, he’d broken free of his bindings and brought his hands up to scratch at his face and eyes. The same terror also made him clumsy and ineffectual, barely even leaving a mark on his face. Like disciplining a child, Jonah had quietly retaken control and that had been that. Jonah hoped that was the only hiccup he would have in this plan.

He hadn’t slept much. There was so much to do when you were overtaking a person’s life. Although he had tried to prepare beforehand as much as he could, so many things had to be done the day of. He hadn’t really slept since then, and Jonah figured he’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours.

Jonah removed his shoes and changed into the silk pajamas that he’d brought along in his bag. They had been James Wright’s and were almost comically over-large on Elias’ small frame, but Jonah would prefer that than whatever Elias Bouchard normally slept in. The suits would be so wrinkled by now, but Jonah didn’t really have anyone to impress. He’d really only brought them so that he wouldn’t have to wander around Penbrooke Manor in _jeans,_ good lord.

Before he got into bed, Jonah stood by the mirror and marveled at himself. Given his age, he hadn’t _actually_ done this all that often often. Not like he had dozens of previous bodies to fall back on for experience. Really, it’d been less than ten. It still surprised him to see his new reflection in the mirror, to bend an elbow and _wave._ His brain firing impulses into his muscles in a body that he did not recognize. Bizarre. No – _fascinating._

His dirty blond hair was three centimeters too long to be professional, in Jonah’s opinion, and had a habit of flopping on front of his face. He pushed it aside with a breath and tried to get it to lay flat back on his head. That would have to do for now, until he got it cut to something more sensible. Jonah’s fingers found his eyesocket next, pulling down on his lower lid to see the pink muscle there. He flicked his eyes back and forth and watched the muscles twitch.

Seemed to be healing nicely. He had the Watcher to thank for that. It wasn’t exactly a by-the-book surgery. If a proper surgeon were to have a go at it, the recovery time would take weeks. Jonah had gotten up no more than two minutes after.

He let his eyes go and pulled the edge of his lip down to examine his gums. Jonah felt like he were examining a prizewinning dog. It was funny, of course, because Jonah didn’t necessarily search for the most remarkable physical specimen. He didn’t care for that, had never really cared for that. Elias Bouchard had been easily manipulated and had money attached to his name, that had practically sealed the deal moreso than any physical capability.

As it was, Elias looked fine. Good-looking. He’d certainly been the object of more than a few office romances during his time at the Institute. Jonah supposed that was the style these days, a sort of casual disheveledness and a cocky grin. The only issue he could see was that he was about a half-foot shorter than James Wright had been and his proportions were scaled appropriately. His arms felt too short. The sleeves hung far past his fingers, making him feel like he’d shrunk.

All of this would be sorted tomorrow, Jonah needed to rest. He moved away from the mirror and ran his hands through his hair, trying to tame it at least an ounce. In doing so, his fingers brushed his earlobes and Jonah realized with a jolt that his ears were pierced. There was nothing in them, and further probing of the lobes indicated that they were almost entirely closed over. But how odd that was. He pressed his fingers against them and rubbed thoughtfully.

Growing up, Jonah hadn’t really known anyone to have their ears pierced. The sole exception were the sailors that came into port. As a boy growing into a young man, Jonah occasionally worked at the pub serving ale to them. Jonah despised them almost to a man – they were an unprincipled and disorganized lot. _However,_ there had been a certain fascination with listening to their stories. Most of them were probably false, tall tales to terrify a boy no more than eighteen, but others … well, Jonah had noticed _real_ fear in their eyes when they discussed what they’d seen. Madness in the deep.

A pierced ear was an indication of how many times the sailor had crossed the Equator. Jonah found himself more readily believing the stories of the sailors that had crossed it three, four, five times. He had listened to them while they sat sadly with their ales, watching the gold twinkle in the gas lights of the pub.

What a strange memory. Jonah would not be re-piercing the ears. Pierced ears were for brutes and prostitutes.

Cozy in his silk pajamas, Jonah peeled the blankets back from the bed. He pressed his fingers to his forehead lightly and focused his powers back on the Magnus Institute. Gertrude Robinson was, blessedly, away. Hopefully she wouldn’t even receive news of his death until he returned, but even if she did, it was no matter. Gertrude Robinson was not going to act against him.

Everything else was proceeding as normal. One of the researchers had rallied to the others, saying that they had to continue their “mission”, even while the future of the Magnus Institute seemed uncertain. God bless those simpletons.

He laid down in bed and pulled the blankets up over them. The frantic sensation at the back of his mind had stilled. Perhaps Elias Bouchard was giving up. Frankly, that wasn’t all that much of a surprise. Elias had squandered his privileged birth on poor work ethic and fanciful pursuits. God, now who did _that_ sound like?

Sleep claimed him soon enough, and Jonah was grateful for it. He didn’t like these transitional moments – at first for their inherent violence and gore, and now for their vulnerabilities and weaknesses in his grand plan.

***

Jonah woke with a lurch, the entire left side of his body aching. He was most certainly _not_ in bed.

In fact, he wasn’t even in the bedroom. Jonah was lying on the floor of one of the dens below. The _wooden_ floor, to be exact. Even Elias’ body, filled with the rubber of youth, ached at where he had slept.

Why on Earth was he _here?_ Jonah grunted and sat up. A wave of nausea overcame him, making him press his hand to his head. Parts of him were sore, but, worst of all, there was a considerable bump on the side of his head. “ _Damn,”_ he croaked in his new voice. He couldn’t fathom why on Earth he was here. Grasping a nearby chair for support, he pulled himself up to stand.

He hadn’t sleptwalk since a child, a condition that his father had prescribed to over-reading and fanciful thoughts. This would be a highly inconvenient time for it to return. Jonah stumbled towards a set of drawers with a mirror set on top, and realized that this was _much_ more serious than a simple act of somnambulism.

Jonah had changed – instead of his pajamas, he was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. His wallet was in the front pocket of it.

Jonah heard the sound of wood striking something heavy and solid. He turned his head to see the impressive doors of the mansion were open, and the rushing wind was thumping it against the inner wall. Outside was barely dawn, and the room was filled with a dewy sort of chill. A burst of cold air came in and Jonah shivered, holding his elbows close to himself, before going and shutting the door.

It seemed that Elias had temporarily taken control, and Jonah hadn’t been aware of it. Everything since he’d fallen asleep wasn’t even a blur. There was simply nothing at all. When James had taken control, even temporarily, Jonah had been beating against the bars. Now … nothing. That was a concern.

He went towards the bathroom to see if the Lukases had any regard for first aid. In the meanwhile, he wondered what on Earth would have caused this sort of thing. He hadn’t performed the ritual any differently. Honestly, it’d gone _smoother_ than he had expected. Dropping the sedative in Elias’ drink had been new, but James had thrashed so badly that Jonah had turned one eye into soup. Awful mess. He wept blood for weeks.

The fault, Jonah could only presume, was in Elias Bouchard himself.

Ah, excellent. It looked like it had been used in the trenches during World War II, but it was a first aid kit. Jonah rummaged around for painkillers. Christ, he wished Peter’s grandfather had taken up residence here before he died. The man had been a morphine _fiend._ And of course, nothing made him feel better than the opium he’d taken in the early 19th century in London, but that was nowhere to be found these days. He found a bottle and poured two pills into his hand. After he dry-swallowed them, Jonah cast a glance at himself in the mirror and saw his gray eyes reflected back. They seemed so out of place on Elias’ youthful face.

Jonah realized that he, perhaps, may have made an error when he chose Elias Bouchard.

Elias hadn’t been _marked_ by the Eye, exactly, but the Eye had turned its Gaze on him earlier in life. Jonah had seen how much Elias feared his mundane little secrets and thoughts being found out, which made him a delicious entry into the Institute employ. Elias’ connection to the Eye had only grown, his paranoia and secrecy more intense, during his short tenure. At the time, Jonah had presumed that would make the transition easier. A shift into a mortal vessel that had already been more-or-less prepared for service to the Eye.

Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Jonah was still a thousand, a _million_ times more powerful than Elias … but Elias was able to cling a little more stubbornly to his body than Jonah was expecting. Enough power to knock Jonah completely out of his mind while Elias was in control.

Well. This was why he was staying somewhere else, wasn’t he? His precaution had been necessary. Jonah felt Elias in the back of his mind, still. He was no longer leaping at the bars, but Jonah couldn’t shake the feeling that Elias was nevertheless waiting for his moment to strike. Jonah cautiously upgraded his threat level from gnat to mosquito.

“Now, there’s no need to be _childish,”_ Jonah spoke to the mirror. He presumed that Elias could still hear him, still see through his eyes. This was his body, after all. “This is useless. I’ve already won. What do you think you were intending to do, hm?” He gestured towards the sweatshirt. “Run off? Escape back to the mainland, tell everyone all about the mean man who cut out your eyes? _Please.”_

Of course, there was no response. Jonah spared a look to the mirror and shifted the sweatshirt off. It seemed that Elias hadn’t thought to wear anything under it. He must have been rather panicked; the button on his jeans wasn’t even done. “I’ve taken your body, Elias. There’s nothing to be done about it now. If it soothes you at all, I’m not going to mistreat it. We both have a vested interest in staying alive as long as possible, don’t we? Why, I’d go so far as to say that I’ll treat it better than _you_ did.”

Jonah tried to keep his voice low and soothing, but he simply wasn’t used to it. Not in this body. It came off deeper than he intended, almost _growling._ Jonah would have to practice at it. Part of being the Head of the Magnus Institute meant sounding calm and confident in every situation, _not_ like a languid stoner who had never inspired leadership in his life.

He had looked into Elias’ past, of course, mostly to prepare himself for what he might experience. It was nothing really surprising, really. Moderate-to-heavy marijuana use for most of university and after, one or two occasions of something harder, typical amounts of drinking. He didn’t go for his physical as regularly as he should have, but a consult with the Eye had told him everything he needed to know about Elias’ medical history and risk.

“I can understand why you might be feeling upset. Really, I do.” Jonah pressed his hand against his chest beseechingly. “But you’re not going to achieve what you think you’re going to achieve, Elias, I promise you that. Really, I consider ourselves rather alike in some ways.”

Whether Elias heeded the words or not, Jonah couldn’t know. But he was most definitely going to change into something else. Jeans. _Lord._ The slow moral decay of the youth.

The pain in Jonah’s head and body started to recede. At that moment, he really didn’t care if that came from the Eye or the acetaminophen.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Jonah put his bag on the bed and brought out his suit. The ritual gave him comfort. He scurried out of his jeans (considered burning them) and into his slightly-wrinkled outfit for the day. Staring at himself in the mirror and adjusting his cufflinks, Jonah got an idea of what he might look like when everything was said and done. Well, Elias would cut a very striking figure, wouldn’t he? Particularly as he grew a little older, a little more authoritative.

He retrieved his hair product from his bag and pushed it through his hair. Jonah didn’t want to go for unkempt. Carefully, Jonah slicked his blond hair back and close to his skull before going for a shave. There were many ways that Jonah had adapted to modern life, but some traditions that he still clung to. They could take his straight razor out of his cold dead hands.

Moreso than becoming more suitable for the role, changing things about himself certainly gave him a sense of control over his body. Shaving away Elias’ stubble made him look different. More like _him._ The Elias Bouchard that Jonah Magnus would be, not the Elias Bouchard that Elias Bouchard had been.

He’d always hated that little stubble Elias insisted on growing and had reprimanded him several times for sloppy appearances. Jonah was smugly satisfied as he watched the whiskers go down the drain of the sink, before he reached for his aftershave. Also not Elias’, but Jonah’s own. If people thought that his aftershave smelled a lot like James’ … well, more power to them. People were rarely so observant.

There. _That_ felt so much better. Jonah admired himself in the mirror, pressing his thumb and forefinger underneath his chin. What a nice jawline Elias had. Yes, he could very well do something with that, couldn’t he? The body began to feel more like his own skin. He looked at his fingernails and stuck them under the sink, carefully scrubbing the blood away with a brush. He hoped this body would last him a long while – perhaps even to the end of this journey. What a thrilling body it would be when the apocalypse was brought about!  
  


Not that Gertrude was exactly giving him hope. Jonah doubted that she would be _the_ Archivist. The next one, though, Jonah had _ideas._ He would find someone stupider, someone defensive, someone insecure. Someone with such a poor self-image that Jonah could put any sort of ideas in his head. If he had to get someone to survive the encounter with all of the fears – well, it was only good if they would have Jonah as a guide, wouldn’t it?

Nice and clean. Jonah admired his nails and went to retrieve his rings from his bag, sliding them on. They all meant something sentimental, one way or another. One was, unfortunately speaking, a wedding band. While the ring was comfortable enough when it was on his finger, Jonah noticed that, holding it in his palm, it was always cold to the touch.

That he actually wore a wedding ring meant little to him, honestly. The other two rings on his hands meant more in terms of a grand overall picture. One had belonged to the original Magnus family (he had taken it off his father’s corpse himself). The other had been gifted to him by Robert Smirke.

Neither had any sort of supernatural ability, but were nevertheless good reminders of reminding Jonah why he was there. Most assuredly, he felt more like himself and went back downstairs. He hoped that if Elias decided to take his body for a joyride again, he’d grant Jonah a touch more warning. And, really, that he wouldn’t let himself fall on the floor. While on the stairs, Jonah wrapped his tie around his neck and skillfully tied the knot.

Time for a touch of something to eat, hm? Jonah had arranged to have some food delivered here the week before, so at least the pantries were stocked. Not much, he didn’t have to survive on much sustenance. And _coffee,_ lord, he wanted to brew some coffee.

He put one hand on the smooth wooden railing before his skin started to tingle. It was like a low course of electricity had been applied over his entire body; gooseflesh erupted all over his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. His heart began to beat faster in his chest. Something, the Eye was trying to tell him, was coming.

It was good to have a premonition for that sort of thing.

Jonah turned on his heel and went to an unused bedroom that led to a balcony. There was nobody in the house; Jonah didn’t waste the energy trying to Know that. If someone was here, they would’ve made themselves known a long time before now. He stepped out into the biting ocean air. Morning mist settled over him, wetting his hair and outer portion of his suit. Hells, it was cold. And _foggy,_ he wasn’t sure how much he intended to see. He went to the railing and leaned against it, peering as far out as he could manage. It wasn’t very far, and really only served to remind him how high the cliff was to begin with.

He saw the shadow before anything else. Something dark and big, gliding across the water like it weighed nothing at all. A boat - more than a boat, a _ship,_ though Jonah had quasi-affectionately referred to it as a dinghy on more than one occasion. Jonah felt his stomach clench. _Could be anyone,_ he tried to justify to himself, even if he knew the answer.

_The Tundra_ broke through the fog, moving to the side so as not to crash into the very cliffs Jonah stood on. He saw the name of it stenciled across the side – the metal siding of the ship was beginning to rust over. Large gray cargo containers were piled high. The damn thing seemed almost _military,_ were it not for the old-fashioned Captain’s bridge sticking out of the top. As to be expected, Jonah didn’t see evidence of a soul onboard. It came up silently as death.

What the _hell_ was his husband doing here? Jonah’s hands tightened on the railing, staring over at him. Oh, _no,_ no no. His husband wasn’t only an idiot, he was also untrustworthy. Jonah simply couldn’t believe that Peter wouldn’t do away with him in a moment of weakness. And what was more weak than temporary bouts of being possessed by some _childish brat?_

Of course, there was nothing to be done about it now. He couldn’t speed off into the ether, he’d crash against something and drown. He couldn’t hide somewhere. Peter would see his little boat, see the evidence that someone had stayed here. Jonah flinched against the railing before going back inside. _Christ,_ how was Peter even piloting the _Tundra_ in such a shallow channel?

Peter knew, in a theoretical sense, what Jonah could do in terms of switching bodies. Although Jonah had, at first, been keen to keep it a secret from him (there was something nice, about being able to assume an entirely new identity every few decades), it had naturally come out during the course of their association. That was the nature of negotiation. People couldn’t very well trust a figure they didn’t know, and Jonah knew Peter trusted him more than anyone else in his life (that was to say, not very much at all).

At least that was a small mercy. He’d rather not have to take Peter’s hand and explain in one syllable words the intricacies of the ritual.

Jonah looked down at his wedding ring and winced.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

He hadn’t brought much by way of weapons. Why on Earth would he? He was in no danger here, had no reason to murder when his greatest enemy lived inside his own head. Jonah ransacked his things before retrieving his straight razor from the bathroom. If he lost control, he hoped Elias would use any remaining brain cells to defend himself from Peter.

Jonah slipped it into his pocket and went downstairs. It had been over a year since he’d last seen Peter Lukas, dragged him in for an investor meeting. Peter had been displeased at being there, bordering on _grumpy._ Oh, Peter could be friendly enough to strangers, playing the chipper old sea captain role, but he knew damn well that he was never going to convince Jonah to go along on that boat. And so, he got to see a side of Peter that few others did: bullheadedness.

Anxiety had settled deep in his gut by the time he reached the front door. Ought he greet Peter and welcome him in? Ought he wait and act like he hadn’t expected Peter at all? He needed to think of something to make Peter go _away._ Of course, there was also the small wiggling fact that Peter would have no clue who he was. Peter wasn’t so observant that he’d recognize a man by his eyes. Peter couldn’t exactly give the man a warm welcome, being a total stranger.

And, of course, Jonah could never forget – at any moment, without warning, he could lose control of his mind and a twenty-four-year old _disappointment_ would be his primary pilot.

Hell.

Standing in the front hallway, Jonah rose his fingers to press in the middle of his forehead. The sensation always made things easier to focus, and Lord knows he would need to focus when Peter was about. He was practically in a place of worship to the Lonely and it looked like the pastor was just about to walk in through the door. _What in fucking damnation was Peter doing here._

Peter had disembarked from his ship. If Jonah hadn’t been so worried, he would had found it deeply amusing that Peter had tied his massive great cargo dinghy to a wooden dock that would probably get torn apart at the first bad thunderstorm. It wasn’t like the ship would float away, he supposed. Rationally, Jonah thought that the ship would not have even been able to make it through in shallow waters like this, but the _Tundra_ had never really operated by any sane person’s logic. Good. If the ship had not been supernaturally inclined to stay afloat, Peter would have sunk it immediately.

As he came up the hill to the estate, the temperature started to drop rapidly. _That_ had to have been intentional – but not moreso than the fog that curled under the door and sprouted across the floorboards. It seemed like the fog was coming below the very ground itself and snaked up like it was a living being, curling around Jonah’s legs as tightly as snakes. Jonah became acutely aware of all the microscopic ways his suit bothered him. Too tight here, too loose there. The knot of his tie seemed to cut off his airway. He could feel the back of the suit stretch with every breath.

How marvelous that was. Despite his continued existence, Jonah felt a stab of nausea. It was the same emotion which prompted kids to have a tantrum that adults tried so desperately to conceal. In no more than a few seconds, Peter had managed to make him feel dreadfully cold, uncomfortable, alone, and stressed. He was all alone in this big awful house, and if his boat cracked, what was he to _do,_ nobody would hear him, he could while away all of his days and wouldn’t see a soul and nobody would even think to look for him –

Well. A sheepdog was very good at herding animals, didn’t mean that it deserved _praise_ for it. Jonah pressed a hand to his chest and took a long breath.

The lock in the front door turned, and there stood Peter.

Peter had gotten taller.

James Wright had been more or less his height, though he had some volume to his hair and Peter’s curls were more-often crushed against his head from his hat. Elias Bouchard stood at a full six inches lower and much narrower overall. Well, if _that_ wasn’t imposing. Is this what other people saw? A gaunt, gray sea captain with a broad chest and wet beard? How on Earth did people ever find Peter _friendly?_ A cloud of fog came along with him, bursting into the house.

Peter’s face softened at once, and he boomed out a laugh. Jonah hadn’t realized that his right hand had snaked into his pocket and tightened around his straight razor. Lord, killing Peter Lukas was an absolute last resort. A headache that he most assuredly didn’t need right now. Peter Lukas was an important donor – and the Lukas family could be quite the irritating little pest when it was put under threat.

“Well, looks like you’ve gotten lost, lad!” Peter remarked kindly. He shut the door behind him. Not like it made much of a difference, Jonah doubted that he’d be able to see past the first stoop. “How awful it must have been, you all alone out here.”

Peter hadn’t recognized him in the slightest. Well, that was good to know. Granted, Peter saw him less frequently than others, and probably couldn’t name his eye color with a gun put to his head. Peter took a step forward and Jonah took a step back, tongue thick in his mouth as he tried to think of an explanation.

“Now, there’s no reason to be like that, is there? My name’s Peter Lukas. I’m not coming to hurt you. Just checking up on you. This is my home. It is a _pleasure_ to meet you.” _Oh, you liar._ “I saw a little schooner –” _That’s not what a schooner is, Peter._ “Tied to the dock there, thought you might be in a bit of trouble. Now, you’ve done very admirably all on your own, haven’t you? But really, I’ll be happy to take you back to the village on my boat. It’s a beauty of a cargo vessel, she is.” _She’s a hunk of scrap metal and rust that is only held together by the power from a universal god of fear._

At first, Jonah could only wonder why on Earth Peter – Peter _Lukas,_ of all people – was trying to help out a man that he didn’t know and believed to be lost. Jonah blinked up at the man, uncertain. Peter was one of the least charitable people he’d ever met, often acting more akin to a brat than a man nearing sixty.

Oh, he was a fool. The strange situation he’d found himself in had thrown him off. Peter Lukas was threatening him.

In his defense, nobody had threatened Jonah Magnus in an awfully long while. Sure, perhaps some Avatars grew a little too rambunctious, a hair too bloodthirsty, but most of them knew very well to stay away from the Magnus Institute. The Archivist was a beautiful old bulldog in that way. The last person who had threatened him had been Gerard Keay – held a letter opener to his throat. That hardly counted, though. Jonah was pretty sure that was just how the pathetic goth expressed loyalty to people who _really_ would’ve given him up without a second thought.

Peter, most certainly, had never threatened him. Until today. He was luring what he believed to be a stupid, young rich man onto his boat. Jonah had a feeling that if he stepped on that boat … well, there was very little chance that he’d be stepping off it again. The _Tundra_ was a powerful old thing.

It was sort of attractive, in its own way. He rarely got to see Peter in his own element. He was sure that Peter’s facade – friendly, welcoming – worked spectacularly well on lonely people. Now, though … it was a bit funny, seeing his husband at work like this.

The discomfort washed away from Jonah at once as he laughed, pressing a hand to his mouth. Peter hadn’t been expecting that. The fog ceased its intrusion into the room and hung in the air like crystal. “There is really no need for all these _dramatics,_ Peter,” Jonah told him. He hooked a finger on the inside of his tie and gave a little pull to loosen it up. “All of this fog is really rather unnecessary, it looks like a haunted house in here.”

Peter jolted hard and took a step back, reverting to something shy. He never did well when he’d been found out, did he? Jonah could almost see the little boy that had once been Peter Lukas there. Independent, troublesome, stubborn. All smiles and bluster until someone caught him out. A rich boy that had never been talked back to in his life.

“Ah – “ Peter started, his fingers folded in front of him. Jonah figured that he only had ten seconds before Peter disappeared back onto his boat, like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“Don’t _tell_ me that you don’t recognize me, Peter. Honestly. What is the point of matrimony if you don’t recognize your own husband?”

If Peter had been disconcerted before, he was absolutely befuddled now. And yet, Jonah could see doubt written on his face. It was the look of a man that was _pretty_ sure this wasn’t what his husband looked like, but it had been an awfully long while and who was to say that Peter hadn’t been thinking of someone else? Jonah scoffed at him and crossed his arms.

He had a great deal of information on Peter, anyway, and he always looked for an excuse to show it off.

Jonah mentally flicked through what he had and decided on something particularly brutal. He nailed it into Peter’s mind – the feeling and thoughts of a midwife who had just birthed her fifth Lukas child. She had seen the others grow, seen the effect of the Lukas influence. Bright and sunny young toddlers grew into despondent, quarrelsome children. It was heartbreaking, but with the Lukas family’s wealth – it wasn’t like the authorities would do anything. Physically, they were all taken care of, but emotionally … the midwife could not help but feel that she had helped birth four little monsters in to the world.

This one would be named Peter, and the midwife felt a bolt of affection for the dear wrinkled infant. She had stared up at his mother and father, both looking at her with something at the intersection of boredom and contempt. The mother hadn’t even expressed any pain beyond an uncomfortable grunt at every push. Peter had wailed so loudly after he’d taken his first breath, and the midwife had wanted to cheer him on. _Cry, little thing,_ she thought warmly. _Cry in this big old silent house. Cry and never stop. Let them know who you are. Let them know you’re different._

“ _Alright,”_ Peter grunted at him, holding his hand out. “That’s enough of that, Jame – whoever you are, now. You’ve made your point.”

Jonah was smug. “It’s Elias now. Elias Bouchard.” The fog had already started to retreat from the house. Peter pouted at having his fun taken away, in a gesture that no self-respecting adult would ever make. Then again, many expressions children made looked stern on adult faces. “It was a good showing, Peter, really. I was _a-tremble.”_

Peter knew enough to know when he was being pandered to. “What are you doing here, then?” It was an accusation. “This is my estate.”

“Our estate, unless you’d like to take me to court.” Jonah held up his ring and middle finger to him, displaying both his wedding band and the Magnus family ring. “I thought I’d take a holiday.”

“You, take a holiday? _You.”_ Peter may not have been the most socially adept, but he knew (as did everyone) that Jonah Magnus wasn’t exactly a layabout.

Jonah gave a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “I know it must be difficult to comprehend, but this - “ He gestured to his body. “Is exhausting work. Some affairs that are out of my hands have to be settled, and I thought it the perfect opportunity to have a rest, away from prying eyes. Certainly you can understand that, if nobody else. Your entire life is having a rest away from prying eyes.”

Of course, Jonah still wanted Peter _out._ He wasn’t going to let Peter see him lose control of his own mind. Yes, Peter wasn’t going to make threats against Jonah, but Elias was a different matter altogether. His mind scoured for possibilities. There was the option of driving enough distressing memories into Peter’s mind, but that might very well inspire Peter to wring his neck before anything else.

“Well, you should have told me as much.” Jonah’s previous insult rolled off Peter’s back; he wasn’t so easily going to rise to Jonah’s bait. “Got me excited, knowing that someone had come to Penbrooke Manor on their own. I re-adjusted my course to stop by, wouldn’t have done that if I’d have known it was just you.”

The insult similarly rolled off Jonah’s back. He did not concern himself with the opinions of sheep. The word ‘excited’, however, did give him a delightful idea. Oh, _dear,_ dear easily manipulated Peter.

Jonah took a step forward towards Peter. Now that Peter knew where they stood, Peter didn’t flinch away from his approach. He stood up on the tips of his toes and looped his arm around Peter’s neck to whisper in his ear. Peter always smelled acridly of frost and evergreen. Jonah didn’t figure there were evergreen trees anywhere near.

“Can’t have you going through all that trouble without repaying you, can I?” Jonah purred into the sea captain’s ear, smooth as silk. “Come now. I’ve recently come into possession of the body of a fit twenty-four-year old man and you have nowhere to be.” He raised his other hand to press against Peter’s stomach, fingers pointing downward. They crept down until Jonah’s fingers met the cold metal of Peter’s belt buckle. His voice lowered to a breathy whisper, throwing a melodic lilt to his words. “Just you and I on this little – “

Peter had vanished underneath his touch.

Jonah couldn’t help but smile with self-satisfaction. He didn’t often resort to that avenue, but it did have an absolutely marvelous success rate. It wasn’t so much the threat of sex itself, but the barest hint of emotional intimacy and Peter was _gone._

Pressing his fingers to his head, Jonah could see that he was divvying out orders to set sail amongst the crewmembers of the _Tundra._ No more business on this little island, apparently.

Oh, Peter. So predictable. That was one of Jonah’s favorite things about him.

Jonah’s first, second, and third priorities were always his work. He had been increasingly unable to separate his work from any other aspect of his life. Everything always boiled down to the grand Ritual he had planned. Interactions and relationships were chosen with the maximum efficiency and advantage in mind. Hell, he’d primarily chosen the new body that he was going to _live in_ for perhaps the next fifty years mostly because he had a rich father and pre-existing connection to the Eye.

_However,_ he wasn’t a complete machine. Jonah liked some people, disliked others. The ones that he disliked (unless they provided a _very_ compelling reason not to), he largely ignored. Most of his donors fell under that category. The ones that he liked were privileged to have his company every now and then when his schedule and work permitted.

And although he’d never admit it … well, it was clear where Peter lied. Peter’s standing would rapidly plummet if Jonah had to deal with him more than once or twice a year, however.

The fog seeped out of the room and Jonah went to go start a fire to deal with the temperature. Maybe have a spot of breakfast, too. He was ravenous, hadn’t had a proper meal in this body yet, and tastebuds were always something to consider. Jonah had spent an hour or so detailing Elias’ allergies and tastes. No, that wouldn’t do. Elias’ cuisine was laughably childish, and Jonah was going to make the man enjoy the finer things.

But for now, he wasn’t going to try anything complex. Jonah prepared some toast and butter and put an egg on to fry. He poured an orange juice, and after a moment, found a bottle of vodka to spruce things up a touch. It had been a long day and the sun wasn’t even fully risen. By the time that he sat down for breakfast, another quick consult with the Eye had determined that Peter and the _Tundra_ hadn’t left yet. Peter had become too thoroughly interwoven with the haze for Jonah to see, however, but the ship was impossible to miss.

Unusual. Perhaps Peter was genuinely considering his intimate offer, Jonah decided with a shrug. He took a bite of the toast. Probably wouldn’t be too pleasant for Elias to quietly be aware of, in the back of his mind, but Jonah wouldn’t exactly turn his husband down. Would while away a half hour or so. He took a slug of orange juice and winced. No, was not a fan of _pulp._ Actually, it would probably only be about fifteen minutes.

The next attack hit him as soon as he drained the rest of his screwdriver. One moment, Jonah was staring outside the kitchen window. The _Tundra_ wasn’t visible from this direction. Honestly, much wasn’t visible except for fog and a sliver of the horizon. There were worse places to be recovering, and he had fended off Peter with poise and excellence.

The next moment, everything was blank.

***

He came to in front of the en suite bathroom where he’d gotten ready for the day. It felt rather like waking up after a night of hard drinking. The world seemed hazy and out of focus, even with his eyes open, and Jonah almost shifted to the side before he regained his balance. Finally, Jonah’s eyes focused at the sight in front of him. _Euch._

The tie had been undone so roughly that the edges of it had frayed; it now lied loose around his neck. His vest was completely gone, his shirt buttons undone, his sleeves pushed up. His hair had been so ruffled as to be wild. The product had hardened tufts of it into hardened spikes. Lord, he looked like some sort of raving lunatic, didn’t he?

Jonah looked down at his hands. All of his rings were gone, but he could see them glittering at the bottom of the sink basin. Close to going down the drain. Lucky, that. Jonah retrieved them and replaced them on his fingers.

At least he wasn’t in any pain. Whatever came over Elias that allowed Jonah to regain control, he had braced himself against the bathroom counter before the switch happened. If this was the extent of the damage, Jonah was pleased. Perhaps the worst had passed. “Pleased with yourself?” Jonah addressed the mirror, tone dripping with condescension.

Slowly, he began to set his appearance back to rights. Sleeves pulled down, cufflinks replaced. Collar folded back. Buttons done up. Hair combed back. Although Jonah couldn’t really see where his vest had got to, he already felt better. More like himself. More like the Elias Bouchard that Elias Bouchard could have been.

He stepped out of the bathroom and saw that his pillow had been moved and placed just on the edge of it. A letter rested on top in obvious view. Curious, Jonah reached for it and held it between his fingers.

_Mr. Wright,_

_Please, let me go. Tell me what you want from me and I’ll give you it. Whatever you want. Please. It hurts. Name anything._

_-Elias Bouchard_

Oh, brilliant. He’d signed his name. Jonah reached for it and tucked the piece of paper into his pocket. While he already had Elias’ signature on his employment paperwork, it never hurt to have a more recent version. Signatures could change over time. While Jonah had no quibbles about gradually morphing the signature into something more natural to him, documents shortly to come (and _especially_ any documents that Elias’ father might see) would need to be similar. No need to raise unnecessary suspicion.

The rest of the bedroom had been neatened since Jonah’s morning preparations. It reminded Jonah of a child tidying their bedroom before asking their parent for a favor. Now, that was pathetic, wasn’t it? _Very_ sad. Jonah pursed his lips and let out a little sigh. “Elias, Elias, Elias,” he murmured, shaking his head back and forth. “You seem to have gotten this all wrong.”

Jonah went downstairs and checked the clock on the wall. Oh, interesting. Elias had made it nearly eight hours; that was rather impressive. He went to put a kettle on for tea. With a mild headache and dry mouth, it recalled Jonah of his more … _athletic_ … days. “There _is_ nothing that you can give me. Really, I’m afraid I can take everything I’d like from you, because I – you see, I _am_ you. Every little memory of yours, every deep-seated fear or desire. So this … I mean, it _is_ begging, what you’re doing, which I think is really rather below your station. Fighting like this, it’s …” Jonah shrugged his shoulders. “Pointless. It really will hurt so much less if you just give up, Elias, and I’m telling you this honestly here. You can really consider me as your only real friend left in the world.” A beat passed, and Jonah’s smile grew wider, pleased with himself. “Not that you had many to begin with, did you? Certainly none that made a lasting impact.”

What was really something was that Jonah wasn’t even lying. Certainly, he wasn’t arguing this out of sympathy for Elias Bouchard, but because this was all rather tedious. Blacking out like he was some degenerate university student every few hours … no, no. That wouldn’t do. And the sooner Elias got that through his thick skull, the better.

The kettle whistled and Jonah poured himself a mug of tea. Two sugars. Tea had changed so _much,_ really. There was nothing more terrible than a craving for a particular kind of food that had become virtually unrecognizable over the years. Damn the Food Standards Agency. Pauper food had remained much the same, bread and butter and such, but the food he had eaten as a child was practically impossible to find. Tea was so _faint_ now.

He drank his tea and sat at the table, pressing his fingers to his temple. The _Tundra_ was still tied to the dock, absurdly dwarfing the tiny metal speedboat. What the hell was Peter still _doing_ here? It was starting to make him irritable. Certainly not keeping a watch on him. Peter was not a Watcher, and Jonah didn’t think he’d scandalized him enough to render him catatonic in his Captain’s quarters. His clothes hadn’t even come off. Perhaps it was possible that he was scheming something, but if so, he wasn’t really being subtle.

Still, at least Peter wasn’t _here._ “I hope you’re not thinking of going to Peter Lukas for help, Elias,” Jonah warned him. No doubt that Elias had _seen_ him come in from the back of his mind. “That man in the ridiculous getup who showed up at the door.” He brought up one hand to twist his wedding ring roundabouts his finger with his thumb. “He’s not your savior. No, he’ll just eat you up, I’m afraid.” Jonah snorted at himself, a rare joke. “And hardly in the fun way. That ship of his will make you forget yourself. Fade away into the fog. I’ve seen it happen before. Mr. Lukas is not a nice man.”

It felt like explaining things to a small child. Jonah supposed that it was, in a way. Elias may have been twenty-four, but he knew so very little. He pressed his fingers against the wedding ring, cold against his finger tips. “And clearly not a very quick one, either.”

At least the Magnus Institute was preceding as normal. How sweet, people were leaving flowers and cards at his office door. Someone had started an Institute-wide email about the fact. All were doing so out of obligation, and no real fondness. Some others – not employees, but _others_ \- had been poking around the tunnels, trying to see if this indicated any weakness that could be exploited. They would turn around, after the sensation of being watched grew too paralyzing. Gertrude was abroad and had received the news of James Wright’s death from Sasha James who worked in Research. She was sitting in her hotel room, trying to think of what this meant exactly. She hadn’t really considered the idea that James Wright could just … die.

That she and every employee of the Institute hadn’t also died immediately, however, was not a very good sign that things would get easier.

Jonah couldn’t help but smile. Ants, all of them, but Gertrude had occasional flashes of intelligence in here. Shame that she rebelled like she got paid for it.

He finished his tea and sat back in the chair. It was unfortunate that Elias didn’t have the same smoking habit that James Wright had; it was always a decent little dopamine kick. He was hardly going to start, though. His eyes drifted around the kitchen and saw a corded phone on the wall. The receiver had fallen from its holster and dangled freely. “Oh, _Elias,”_ Jonah crooned softly. “You tried to call for help? Clearly you still have no idea what you’re dealing with here.”

And, really, what harm would it do to explain? It wasn’t like Elias was going to escape his mind at any point. “The Lukas family – my husband that you met – would _never_ have allowed for their phones to actually work. It was probably only installed to give any poor souls a touch of hope. They specifically designed this estate for you to be _alone._ Which is why, obviously, I brought us here in the first place. I would like to be alone.”

Jonah sat back in his chair and let out a soft sigh. He lowered his voice and tried to sound – he hoped – earnest. “I can understand why this would be frightening for you, Elias. Really, I _do._ Being made aware that your fears are _quite_ real? But that doesn’t change anything. And, frankly, your terror is not _my_ problem. I have been doing this for a very long time. You are a twenty-four-year old man that hasn’t accomplished anything of real value in your life. Step away from your little moral crusade and really, _truly_ examine your position here.”

Ah, that hadn’t sounded as comforting as he hoped. No matter. Jonah was not one for niceties. He looked at the water on the kettle. Probably still warm enough for another cup. As he stood, Jonah couldn’t help a smirk. “And get back to me when you form a conclusion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when a chapter doesn't have any obvious things to CW for, I just want to write 'IDK CW: Evil????? Just an evil man being evil'. 
> 
> also, peep the most dysfunctional marriage known to man that somehow includes 1960s-level standards for affection whilst including men who would 100% murder one another if they knew they wouldn't get caught


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Murder attempts (2)  
> Mentions of body decomposition  
> Some violence

Whether or not Elias heeded his words, Jonah was able to spend his evening in relative peace. He would have genuinely relaxed, if it weren’t for the enemy in the back of his head and the enemy at the wheel of his ship. The _Tundra_ was still docked out there, unmoving. Jonah had even went out onto the balcony to stare at it, as if there was something his eyes could see that his Eyes couldn’t. What the hell was Peter _doing?_

Either way, night came and Jonah wasn’t going to spend the entire night scheming. He returned upstairs and put on his pajamas, carefully smoothing them down. The rings were placed in a bowl on a nightstand. Jonah had prepared himself a night-cap of the nice gin that he’d found in the kitchen, and overall, Jonah thought that perhaps he would take more than one holiday a century. He wouldn’t end up doing that, of course, but it was nice to imagine.

Jonah had brought a book into bed, and he spent some time reading it while taking slow sips. If Elias was restless, Jonah didn’t feel it. Perhaps the boy had worn himself out with his excursions earlier today. And, as always, there was the little seed of hope deep within him: perhaps Elias _had_ given up after all. The straight razor from his pocket had been returned to the bathroom for the following morning. He thought he’d prepare a lovely oatmeal for himself tomorrow, there was cinnamon and sugar in the kitchen. Yes, that would do. Perhaps he’d eat it out on the balcony and wait for his husband’s boat to leave so he could finally fucking relax.

It was later in the night when Jonah put a bookmark in his novel and put it to the side. A lovely little Harlequin romance piece. Not very deep, of course, but Jonah had come to regard all of humanity as profoundly shallow and this didn’t make much of a difference. Salacious, too. Filth. Brought him back to that little pub with all the sailors, who’d tell him fantastic stories of women they bedded and monsters they fought. The fantastic, filthy stories he experienced himself – well, they hardly had the same narrative flow.

He pressed his fingers to his forehead. At once, his mouth popped open in surprise. Peter Lukas had left his boat, and was climbing up the front stairs as that very moment.

He was pounding the knocker on the front door. Jonah wasn’t going to _get up,_ Christ, it was nearly ten at night and he was in his pajamas. Perhaps if he laid very still, Peter wouldn’t even notice his presence. Fool’s errand, unfortunately. Peter was about as sharp as a slab of rock, but he did have the outstanding ability of being able to ferret out whenever people were around. Doubtless Jonah’s presence in the floor above loomed over him like an oncoming storm.

And, there it was, the sound of the front door opening. Jonah sighed and slid the novel into the nightstand drawer. It was strange, not having to wear reader’s glasses. He probably would in the future, all of Elias’ relatives had. Peter had worn glasses as long as he’d known him, and Jonah wasn’t all that convinced it wasn’t for effect. They fogged up in the most threatening sort way. Footsteps on the stairs, and a noticeable dip in temperature. That likely wasn’t intentional. Just sort of happened with Peter Lukas, like uncontrollable gas. No fog indoors, though, for which Jonah was glad.

Peter himself appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. He looked rather fogged over himself – his glasses had gone completely opaque and so reflective that Jonah could see himself in bed. Peter took them off and began to polish them on his sleeve. “Yes, Peter?” Jonah asked politely. He folded his hands on his lap. “Is there something I can do for you at this late hour?”

“Bottom of the ship is scuppered,” Peter confessed, sheepish. “The rocks in the shallows.”

It seemed like even the Lonely had limited patience for Lukas stupidity. Jonah made no comment on it, even if his heart wanted him to mock. “How terrible. And what’s to be done about it?”

“They’re making repairs, now, but it’ll take a few days, they’ve said.”

Oh, and Peter had actively spoken with his crew. _That_ was a marvel. He was probably exhausted from all the exertion, then. Jonah didn’t have the faintest how a crew could repair the bottom of the ship that had been bashed around by rocks – or why the ship itself wasn’t making the world’s saddest sea-wreck at the bottom of the shallow channel – but who was he to question the ways of the Lonely? Certain things just needed time. By Jonah’s calculations, the tunnels underneath the Institute ought to have physically crumbled years ago, and yet.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do about that precisely.”

“Just wanted to get off the ship.” Peter’s voice had turned gruff, but he wasn’t quite meeting Jonah’s eyes. That alone gave him a sense of superiority. “Noise going on. Conversation.”

Covertly, Jonah rose his fingers to brush against the side of his temple under the guise of tucking his hair behind his ear. Peter wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t see inside of the _Tundra,_ but from the outside, he could hear the chatter of shipboard crew and the clanging of metal. They were doing _something,_ for certain. Peter was looking to escape all that commotion. Jonah rose his eyebrow again, and looked around at the bed.

“And you’ve chosen here, instead of the …” A quick consult, and the blueprints for Penbrooke Manor appeared in his head. “Five other bedrooms in the residence.” The question was implicit. Jonah moved so that he could cross his arms over his chest, regarding Peter curiously.

Peter had clearly started to get frustrated with the sheer amount of questions being thrown his way. “Well, if you’re going to be like that – “

“Ah, _ah,_ ah, ah,” Jonah soothed, shaking his head. “I thought you’d said something about me asking you, instead of taking the answers for myself. You really are impossible to please sometimes, Peter.”

Elias had been quiet for an entire evening, and Peter was just coming up here to sleep regardless. Jonah wasn’t _thrilled_ with the idea, of course, but it was better than trying to come up with a suspicious excuse to send Peter on his way – particularly if Peter had a very good reason not to return to the _Tundra._

Sometimes Peter was unknowable. Not in the sense that Jonah couldn’t crack his pretty little curled head open if given the opportunity, but because if he _tried_ that, Peter would be quite annoyed indeed. It was hard to tell why Peter had opted for this bedroom. Perhaps because Peter was acutely aware of the cold around him, and preferred to stay somewhere warm. Perhaps because Peter planned on slitting his throat in the middle of the night. Perhaps because Peter, against all odds, _missed him._

If Jonah had to put money on it, he would say that it was a variation on the latter. Doubtless that Jonah would wake up to an empty bed and rumpled bedding, the other side mysteriously cold. The lover, fleeing in the middle of the night to places unknown? Or, even more tantalizing, to mysterious danger adventure from where he might not return?

_Christ._ If he didn’t know with one-hundred percent certainty that Peter didn’t read one more word than he had to, he would have sworn that Peter snuck a few adventure novels here and there. It wouldn’t be the same, of course. Jonah was not the sort to pine for lost love. But the window dressing was appealing enough for the Lonely sometimes.

Jonah reached for the blankets on the other side of the bed and pulled the blankets back. “Come in, then. Take off your shoes and jacket.”

Peter, in fact, stripped down until he was in his undershirt and boxers before sliding in bed next to him. The mattress dipped and jostled Jonah as Peter made himself comfortable. He reached for his glass and drained the last of the gin. “Now, really,” Jonah asked as he put it to the side, “Do you _want_ to have sex? Because I’m going to bed soon and I’ll not stand you waking me up in the middle of the night.”

Beside him, Peter pulled the blankets over his shoulders and laid his own head down in the pillow. “No chance in hell. It’d be like sleeping with a stranger.” Even laying down, his curls didn’t seem to move from where they’d been mashed against his skull.

Jonah tutted. “And we can’t be having that.” To hell with it, then. Jonah turned to his side and retrieved the romance novel from the nightstand, flipping open to where he’d placed his mark.

He rolled his head from side to side, relieving the ache there. Elias didn’t seem to be the sort to suffer from chronic neck pain, but it had been a tremendously stressful few days. While he did so, he became aware of glassy blue eyes staring up at him. “What are you looking at?”

“You.”

Jonah flicked his eyes over to Peter. His head was on the pillow, curls rapidly drying out. Without his glasses on and his ridiculous garb, Peter looked almost … well, normal. Jonah still couldn’t help but marvel by how large he seemed now. He seemed to sink the other half of the mattress. “Can’t get used to it, can you?” Jonah felt a thrill shoot through him, the question coming out at a whisper. It _was_ remarkable, wasn’t it? Inhabiting an entirely different vessel. Sometimes he forgot how that might seem to other people.

“Not really. It’s just you in your head?”

The lie sprang easily from Jonah’s lips. “Of course it is. Elias Bouchard died the moment I removed his eyes. It’s not meeting another new person, Peter, just think of it as …” Jonah tried to conceal his amusement. “ _Very_ extensive plastic surgery.”

Peter didn’t seem convinced. “Was James Wright in very poor health, then?”

“Well, no. As being seventy went, he was in remarkably good health. I didn’t foresee developing any terminal illnesses, but as one gets older, one does develop concerns. And when Elias Bouchard came around, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to make the change.” He reached the end of the page and flipped to the next. “Why? Are you mourning James Wright? Because you didn’t really know _him,_ either.”

“Suppose it is sort of jarring, in a way. Never going to be able to see him again. Own sort of grief.” Peter blinked his eyes slowly. “It’s good.”

“That’s the spirit.” Another page.

“That’s really the appeal of marriage, isn’t it?” Peter had rolled over onto his back to stare at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. “All that pomp about ‘death to us apart’ – it’s all about that inevitable death in the end. All about being a widow, really. Nothing finer.”

Oh _dear,_ Peter was feeling philosophical today. “Somehow, I don’t think many people would believe you.” Another page. “But I doubt you’d let them argue much.”

“Will you grieve me when you’re a widow, Jonah?”

“Of course, darling.” Another page. Jonah’s voice never rose above a monotone. “ _Terribly.”_

Jonah didn’t need to look over to know that Peter was smiling next to him, and Jonah resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He did not think about Peter’s death much, not because it seemed so unfaceable, but because he had larger matters to concern himself with than the inevitable death of his spouse. Grief always seemed to make its way to Jonah eventually, and thinking overlong about it didn’t delay death. Besides, Peter was about as foolish as a child, and it seemed strange to think of him as … well, old.

“It went alright? The, ah, gouging?”

Peter was certainly learning his manners, wasn’t he? So polite. “About as well as could be expected, given I was gouging a man’s eyes out. He stayed sedated the entire time. Woke up towards the end, gave some trouble, but nothing unmanageable.”

“What happened to _his_ eyes?”

Another page. Jonah shrugged both shoulders. “The rats will get them eventually. Eyes decompose like anything else, if not.”

Sometimes he wondered if Peter was frightened of him. Many found it difficult to think of Peter Lukas as naive. He was, after all, a fifty year old sea captain. He had wizened gray hair and a commanding demeanor. He walked with purpose and kept quiet most of the time. That unnerved people.

But, when it came to him, well … Jonah was over two hundred years old. Peter was very well still learning how to spell with blocks for how advanced his plans were. And Peter could be exceptionally brutal when he wanted to be, but hadn’t had centuries-long practice of killing his natural impulses against horror and disgust. Still, Jonah wasn’t about to start censuring things for Peter’s own benefit.

The end of a chapter. Well, that was a good enough place to end. All of the books went downhill after the protagonist or love interest had sex for the first time, anyway. The happily ever after could have been a footnote. Jonah put the book to the side and stretched out, only to be jostled as a severe shiver wracked Peter’s body. “Cold?” He asked.

Peter nodded on the pillow. “Been on the ship too long. Can’t get bloody comfortable, and this place is like an icebox.”

The fire that Jonah had set in the hearth died quite a few hours ago, but he’d been under the blankets for some time. He felt toasty enough. Reaching over, Jonah cupped Peter’s cheek with his hand. Peter didn’t flinch and instead allowed his head to be turned to face his husband. “Well,” Jonah considered, “Perhaps _you_ can leave me cold in the morning.”

And there, Jonah laid down entirely. Peter turned to face him. He had some hesitation – this was a similar intimacy to the sort that had made him vanish earlier that day – but Jonah could tell, just looking into his face, that Peter was freezing and exhausted. Whatever mental gymnastics had to do in order to convince himself of this, it won first place, because two thick arms were wrapped around Jonah’s chest. Jonah felt himself pulled against him, and _Christ,_ Peter hadn’t been lying about being cold.

In a gesture that was almost tender, Peter pulled the blankets further over Jonah’s shoulders and held him close. Jonah, for his part, returned the gesture and wrapped his arms around his middle. His face was buried in the soft cotton of Peter’s undershirt.

They’d slept like this together when Elias had been James, but it had been different, then. James had been a little broader, a lot taller, and while it had been _fine,_ Peter usually grew restless to how close James’ face was to his own. This seemed to set Peter more at ease, Jonah presumed because Peter could imagine he was some monstrous eldritch teddy bear that had lost all of its stuffing.

Well, whatever it was, Peter started to warm after a few minutes, and Jonah had to admit that it was comfortable. Not comfortable enough to make Jonah want to do something as unthinkable as keep Peter around more often, but a pleasant enough place to sleep in a creaky, cold old manor. Given that he’d been inflicted with someone taking over his mind all day – well, Jonah could allow himself that.

Jonah finally shut his eyes. He took longer to fall asleep than Peter did. In his sleep, Peter reached for the blankets and tugged them up, obscuring Jonah’s head completely. That was fine, Jonah figured, sleepy and content in the darkness. That was fine. All he wanted to do was sleep.

***

Peter woke to a weight on him. His first thought was that Jonah had rolled over on him in his sleep. In his grogginess, it took him a few moments to remember that Jonah wasn’t the Jonah he had known. He was practically a half-pint and looked like he might blow away in a stiff wind. Of course Jonah Magnus would pick a good-looking twenty-four-year-old blond boy to inhabit. Jonah wouldn’t be caught dead in someone who didn’t look wealthy and disarming. _That_ Jonah couldn’t roll over on top of him even with a good shove. It’d be like trying to roll up a hill in his sleep.

Then Peter felt something cold and sharp at his neck, and thought he might want to go ahead and tend to this little measure.

Jonah was straddling his waist, leaning forward on him. There was a straight razor held in one hand, sharp end pressed just below his chin. He looked scared to death, which – in Peter’s experience – was a bit of an odd emotion to have while planning to kill someone. Certainly an emotion that Peter hadn’t ever seen in Jonah before.

This didn’t make sense sense. Jonah wasn’t the sort who got his hands dirty – yes, he’d perhaps gouged out Elias Bouchard’s eyes, but that was different. That had been some idiotic child who’d crossed paths with the wrong man. But deciding out of the blue to take a razor to his throat, when he hadn’t even know Peter was going to be there? His surprise at seeing Peter for the first time had been obvious enough.

Besides, even if he _was_ going to be killing him, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. After all – stiff breeze.

Without saying a word, Peter rolled over. A startled Jonah went with him until Peter was pinning him by his shoulders to the bed, preventing him from even reaching his neck with the straight razor. He straddled Jonah’s waist and looked down at him, uncertain and confused but not causing pain.

Jonah had no reason to want him _dead._ Any more than the usual. Jonah was a greedy little shit at the end of the day, and so long as the Lukas family funded the Institute – well, that was all the reason Jonah needed to keep Peter alive. Peter wasn’t any fool, he knew that his money kept him protected from Jonah and his bulldogs. Besides, even if he wanted Peter dead, he wouldn’t do it like _this._ This was sloppy work. Risky business.

He opened his mouth, uncertain of what to ask – _what the hell, Jonah –_ before his husband burst into tears.

Jonah Magnus had lost his goddamn mind. The Eye had fried his brain like an egg. He couldn’t cry all that aggressively, not with his shoulders pinned to the comforter, but his entire frame trembled underneath Peter’s grip. Peter wasn’t even squeezing his shoulders enough to _bruise._

“What are you doing?” Peter asked harshly, giving Jonah’s shoulders a shake. “Stop that.”

If anything, Jonah only started to cry harder. Tears rolled from his great gray eyes and across his temples, staining the bedsheets below him. Elias Bouchard was an _ugly_ crier, Peter had to note. His chin got all scrunched up and his face got as red as a tomato.

Peter did not like people crying. Peter did not like people doing much of anything, but crying was definitely in the bottom five. That was how he had managed to withstand Jonah’s company all these years. Jonah was not a sentimental sort of man, and their marriage not the sentimental sort of bond. And even then, Peter privately thought that Jonah Magnus was an incorrigible, arrogant dickhead that would probably deserve whichever Avatar came along and popped his head right off. He just had to reconcile that with the fact that he had a firm alliance with him, and Jonah – quite against his will – knew him better than anyone else in existence.

And he was still _crying._ “What the hell are you doing that for?” Peter asked again, shaking his shoulders enough to cause Jonah’s head to thump against the pillow. Jonah had released the straight razor, which lay useless in the bed. Instead, Jonah’s hands went to clasp around Peter’s forearms.

Sometimes Jonah did this nonsense. Acted all trampy and sentimental so that Peter would leave him alone, curled around his chest or batted his eyelashes. It worked out beautifully for both of them, because Peter never really minded leaving Jonah alone. He thought that it would be a hell of a lot easier if Jonah just said as much instead of putting on a song-and-dance.

This was different, though. This was … undignified.

“P-puh-puh-puh – “

Certainly Jonah Magnus wasn’t having a medical emergency. He would’ve checked out this Elias Bouchard fellow out thoroughly, and the Eye wouldn’t allow for its most valuable student to just croak. Would it?

Peter knew the Eye more than he really wanted to, even from before Jonah came into his life. Hell, perhaps that was why Jonah was so drawn to him in the first place. All of their financial transactions could be done without throwing marriage into the mix. And yet, there they were. An unorthodox marriage, to be sure, but Peter had a prickling feeling that Jonah kept him around for more than just money. Not _love,_ but … whatever people like him felt.

When he’d been a child, Peter would steal money from his family and take a ride into town. He would walk there all night sometimes, watching houses from the street. Their lights were always so warm and yellow, so full of life even if inhabited by one or two people. Peter liked watching, seeing all their secrets. Secrets much too private to be aired in public, but clearly not private enough _not_ to have them in full display in the front room. Did the husband hesitate before he pulled his children in for a hug, wondering if this was all life was? Did the wife look at their Christmas decorations a little sadly, remembering happier Christmases gone by? Did the child stare sadly at the toys they received, knowing they would have no playmate?

There had been something so _enticing_ about it. But, in the end, Peter had chosen the more introspective path. Watching every family and their secrets only served to make him feel more _othered._ His family wasn’t like that, by any means. His family didn’t speak to one another. Peter would never have secrets like that. Instead, he would only have cold dark streets, without any yellow lights to welcome him home.

He had embraced that, instead of being a voyeur. How different his life might have been if he hadn’t been born into the influence of the Lukases.

Jonah had to see that, because Jonah had been the one to establish a connection first. He had even given Peter a tour of the Institute (boring) when their interactions first started. Of course, Peter couldn’t care a lark for what the Eye desired. It stirred nothing in him.

Jonah had started to hiccup, his sobs growing so terrible that Peter worried he might choke. He released Jonah’s shoulders and sat up, still straddling his hips. Before Jonah could move, Peter snatched up the straight razor. “What is _this,_ Jonah?” Peter demanded again, but now, he knew he sounded fed-up more than baffled. Jonah was clearly on another one of his elaborate dramatics. For what purpose, he didn’t know. It was too early for something like this. “Have you got something you want me to do? What is all this for?”

With his shoulders free, Jonah shoved the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbed furiously. Peter thought blearily that he should have gotten up an hour earlier and left, like his original plan had been. But after dealing with the _Tundra_ crew all day previous, he had wanted to postpone any further interaction at least a little longer. He had thought Jonah would do the decent thing and leeave _him_ to be cold in bed, if he woke up first.

A full minute passed before Jonah seemed to calm himself down enough to vocalize. He tore his hands away from his face and got out a jumble of words in a rush: “P- _please,_ Mr. Lukas, you’ve got to help me, _p-p-please –”_

_Mr. Lukas?_ “Jonah,” Peter reprimanded sternly. “This _is_ foreplay. I’m not in the mood.”

He really didn’t understand human connection, clearly, because this was so … _strange._ Jonah knew far more about how people interacted than he did, so Peter trusted that this sort of thing was normal, but he was so far removed from day-to-day socialization that it all seemed alien. Peter swung his leg back from Jonah’s hips and got up from the bed to get dressed. He’d gotten his trousers on before he felt hands on his shoulders again. Jonah had practically scrabbled forward on his hands and knees to keep Peter from leaving.

Discomfort brewed strong in his gut. _Watch your step,_ he internally warned. He was not above fully vanishing into the captain’s quarters aboard the _Tundra_ if his husband _insisted_ on being horny. Which … Jonah never did. He always seemed to have more important things on his mind. Was this just what Jonah was like after he switched bodies? He had to feel like a spring chicken, going from seventy to twenty-four.

“N-no, you don’t understand, I’m not – ‘m not Jonah.” His lip was quivering like a child, and he rubbed his forearm rapidly over his eyes. “I’m Elias. I’m – he’s – he’s in my head. Please, Mr. Lukas. Peter. You’ve got to help me.”

Oh.

Oh, Jonah Magnus played dirty pool, didn’t he.

Peter’s back straightened as he sat back down on the bed. Elias had taken to wringing his hands together, almost sick with anxiety, staring at him with big pleading gray eyes. “Now, why didn’t you sat that to begin with?”

It was a different tone altogether. Peter’s voice had taken on a smooth, self-assured lilt to it. This was a man surprised by nothing. Welcoming, kind. “Let me get my clothes on, Elias. And you explain to me just what on Earth is going on, won’t you? Because it’s got me terribly confused.”

And Peter did. He buttoned up his trousers and reached for his shirt. As he did, Elias situated himself on the bed in his silk pajamas and began to explain.

“I don’t know – I know you two talked about it. Last night. When you were … “ Elias’ gaze was firmly on his lap, like he was afraid to look up. Peter wanted to snap at him to take a deep breath and speak in complete sentences, this was why he didn’t talk to children. But, he understood the need to repress his gut instinct for the kid to finish. “You know he’s an evil man, Mr. Lukas. I – I mean, it seems like you don’t even really _like_ him all that much, and I don’t – like, obviously I don’t have a problem with, ah, gays? Is that the, uh - “

“I’m hearing a lot of words, but I’m still not hearing a point, Elias,” Peter remarked. His words may have been harsh, but he kept his tone a shade north of lightly teasing.

“He lied to you. I’m still here, in his head, I have been since he took my body. And it’s so … Mr. Lukas, it’s _so_ fucking hard to get control back, I have to fight all the time and even then I can only really jump him when he’s relaxed, and it’s - “ The boy’s eyes had started to stream tears again. He sniffed once, hard. “It’s so hard.” His voice cracked. Oh _dear,_ oh dear. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Peter didn’t know how to take this, but it definitely explained why Jonah wanted him out the first time. _Interesting._ But, of course, he definitely wasn’t going to do anything while there was the risk of Jonah returning. The last thing he needed was an angry husband in his hands. “And how does Jonah come back, lad? So we know how to avoid it.”

“I think it’s – I’ve only been here twice. No, this is the third time,” Elias amended. “And I think it’s – I have to see his eyes. In a reflection. Um, the first time I saw the m-mirror in the den downstairs, the second time I – I wrote him a note and then intentionally went in the bathroom. Both times, I see his eyes, and - “ Sobs, again. “ _They’re not my eyes, Mr. Lukas.”_

Peter didn’t think he’d ever been grateful for Jonah in his life, and he wasn’t going to start now. But at least Jonah didn’t cry all the god damn time. Peter couldn’t suppress an annoyed sigh, throwing his coat on over his shoulders. He turned around and crouched in front of the bed to be roughly eye-level with the man. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

Elias didn’t react to Peter’s tone. “Please help me,” he begged. “My dad, he’s got money, he can give it to you. Anything, just _please_ get him out of my head. He says – ” There, Elias hiccupped from his tears. “He says that you’re not to be trusted, but of course he’d say that, wouldn’t he? He’s a liar. I’m sure you can help me, Mr. Lukas, please. I – I think I’ll die, eventually, being like this, and it’ll just be all him.”

Well, if this wasn’t an illustrious opportunity.

Jonah was powerful. Much too powerful – and he collected secrets for a living, of _course_ Jonah would hold more power than the average Avatar. While Jonah never seemed keen on going after a Ritual, it didn’t take a genius to see that Jonah had bigger plans in mind. Nobody ever lived forever in their state without wanting to bring about a Ritual. Jonah seemed to claim that there were enough secrets in the world to sate him forever … but Peter suspected more.

And here he was given an absolutely _delightful_ opportunity to be rid of that little headache, once and for all. No risk, so long as Elias didn’t look in a mirror. That could be definitely be arranged, and what he had to do in order to sink Jonah Magnus once and for all was … well. Walk _maybe_ a quarter of a mile, downhill. The _Tundra_ wasn’t sailing, but she was still a powerful old thing.

Besides, if Jonah didn’t rely on his money, he would do the same thing. All Avatars would, so long as they served different patrons. Eliminating competition – even if, given his brief flirtation with the Eye, Peter wasn’t so sure they were at all different beasts.

He clapped a hand on Elias’ shoulder. “Well, now you’ve moved my heart,” he crooned. “Of course I’ll try and help you, lad. Jonah’s crossed one line too far with this, hasn’t he?”

Oh, god. Oh, hell, he was being hugged. Elias had thrown both arms around his shoulder to sob into his shoulder. Peter took a _deeeeeep_ breath and forced himself to remain calm, but he couldn’t help the way that he stiffened like a board. Thankfully, the hug was brief. “T-thank you. I’ve never – I never did anything to him. I’ve never done anything in my _life,_ Mr. Lukas, I haven’t, I don’t know … god, it’s all just been so awful.”

Still feeling the memory of Elias’ arms around his shoulders, Peter rose with a grimace. He wasn’t about to humor the boy any more than he already had. “I know someone that can get him out of you, but we’ll have to sail back to the mainland. Are you ready to go? I’ve got a ship.”

There, Elias gave him the saddest little smile that he’d ever seen. “We can’t go soon enough, um, Captain.”

Even _Jonah_ hadn’t ever called him Captain. Maybe this little blond idiot wasn’t half-bad. Peter clapped a distracted hand on his back and turned to walk. “You’ll want to keep your eyes on the floor. Can’t have you risk seeing your reflection somewhere, eh?”

“You’ve got it.” Elias’ voice had turned lighthearted, even _chipper._

Maybe he wouldn’t toss Elias overboard right away. Maybe he’d keep him around for a little while, watch _both_ personalities bleed out of them. That’d be something. Then again, he wasn’t going to risk playing with his food. If Jonah came back and found himself on the ship, he’d be sunk for sure. Jonah was not exactly known for his limitless generosity and kindness.

Elias was still in Jonah’s pajamas when he followed Peter downstairs. At any moment, he was convinced that Jonah would come to and ask Peter what he thought he was doing, exactly. It didn’t happen. Instead, Peter felt a rising excitement as they successfully escaped the front door of Penbrooke Manor. They started off on the long slope towards the docks. The _Tundra_ seemed larger than life, close enough as almost to scrape against the cliff-side.

“Have you been doing this long?” Elias asked, and Peter realized with a growing dread that the boy was making _small talk._ Peter gave a shrug of his shoulders, and Elias continued. “Have you known Jonah long?”

“A while,” Peter remarked. That was probably an understatement. He’d known James Wright for a long time. Decades, really, he’d barely been more than a boy himself when he’d first met him.

“He can’t just – just get away with this. As soon as everything’s fixed, I’m going to – I’m going to sue him.”

Peter could almost feel his eyes glaze over immediately. He had no patience for courts and no patience for petty squabbles. Elias still hadn’t quite grasped what was going on, did he?

“You know, I – I was supposed to be the Head of the Magnus Institute. And I think, when everything’s fixed, I’m just going to - “ Elias let out a frustrated grunt while they went down the stairs. The fog had returned outside, sweeping around them. The _Tundra_ was no longer visible, but Peter knew the way. “I’m just going to destroy it. Not even going to sell it, I’m just going to _drive it into the ground_ as fast as I can. That’s what he deserves.”

If there was anything Peter had less patience for than courts, it was business talk. Even Jonah kept his business talk thankfully sparse. Their investor meetings were decent excuses to get tipsy on wine and for Jonah to share any potential dangers and threats to the _Tundra._ Usually, Peter would also receive what Jonah had once jokingly called a honey-do list – a list of names of people that needed to disappear from London.

They reached the end of the pier with Elias babbling on about half-baked ideas for revenge. Peter hadn’t been listening. He pressed his hand against the gangplank that connected the ship to the dock.

In general, people didn’t have to disembark from the _Tundra_ all that often. That was more-or-less the point of all of this. For that reason, Peter didn’t really use one that was … recommended. Safe. Not a death trap. It was practically just a wooden plank, not particularly wide, and certainly with no guard rails. When Peter started up it, the entire thing started to bend under his weight. That didn’t deter him. He’d been up and down it enough.

He heard the _creak_ of it as Elias’ stocking feet began to come up behind him. Being so close to the _Tundra,_ the fog was especially terrible here. Peter could stick his arms out on either side of the gangplank and watch his fingers disappear into the mist. _Yes,_ he did like that sort of closeness very much. As they went further up the plank, all other sounds seemed to quiet behind them. Even the lapping of the water at the _Tundra_ hull quieted into nonexistence.

Until, of course, Elias Bouchard started to speak. “Um, Mr. Lukas? Do … is this safe? It feels like it’s, uh. It’s bending.”

Peter stopped on the gangway and let out a beleaguered sigh. He turned on his heel with surprising dexterity for a man of his size and a wooden plank of its size. While Peter’s goal had been to give an impromptu motivational remark so that Elias didn’t entirely lose his nerve halfway up the gangplank, he found that his glasses had completely fogged over. Peter couldn’t see Elias through them any longer. Sighing, Peter removed them to clean them off on his shirt.

When he replaced them on his face and looked down at Elias … well. Needless to say that it wasn’t Elias anymore.

Jonah was _livid,_ his nostrils flaring and color slowly reddening his face. His arms were stiff at his hands, hands balled up like he was going to throw a punch. Peter’s mouth jumped open in shock. He’d been so fucking _close._ The deck of the _Tundra_ wasn’t more than fifteen feet away, and it would’ve been over.

And now, Jonah looked like he was ready to kill him. For a second, Peter could’ve sworn that he saw red in Jonah’s eyes.

Looking back, Peter was sure that Jonah just intended to knock him off the gangway and into the water. James might’ve been capable of doing that, with their similar builds. Elias would have had more difficulty. Still, Jonah seized the front of Peter’s shirt in his hands and _pushed –_ and it was enough. Peter stumbled backwards, letting out a call of alarm, before feeling himself go over the gangway and into the waters hurtling below.

And – before he impacted the surface – he heard Jonah’s twin call of alarm, just above him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> splish splash two old men in a bath


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Verbal beratement  
> Aftermath of a murder-suicide attempt  
> Discussions of murder weapons

“You _useless fucking beetle-headed clump – “_ Jonah was half-screeching as they plodded into Penbrooke Manor. Both of them were dripping wet in the freezing cold, and Jonah hadn’t been wearing anything more than silk pajamas when he’d gone out in the first place. “ _I ought to mount your jolter head on the goddamn mantle and use it to light my matches!”_

Peter had followed silently behind him, and for that, Jonah had to admire his bravery. When they’d swam to the pier and pulled themselves up, Peter had looked awfully like he wanted to go racing up to the _Tundra_ and sail off. But then Jonah would not only have to remember him as a backstabber, but also a coward. And Peter had made the smart decision for once in his goddamn life.

Jonah was so cold that he thought he was going to rattle his heart right out of his chest. Still, the cold didn’t seem to affect his lungs at all. “ _You stupid royster, what did you think was going to happen!?”_ He was practically bursting with anger while he stomped up the stairs to the bedroom. The pajamas were peeled off and thrown in the corner until Jonah was entirely nude.

He cared little for privacy these days, especially when the body felt more like a coat that he borrowed instead of his own skin. God, he was fucking _freezing_ and of course this place didn’t have a shower. He supposed he was lucky that it had a bath. “Taking advantage while I was – that’s _low,_ Peter, even for a family that’s made a showing of how many _failures and disappointments can come out of your mother’s cun- “_

His teeth were starting to clatter together. A burst of pain radiated from his tongue. Jonah retreated to the bathroom and turned on the water, sitting on the edge. He crossed his arms in front of his bare chest and glared at the opposite wall. Frankly, he wasn’t even sure if Peter had followed him all the way up in the bedroom. Perhaps it would be better if Peter waited in the living room, because anger still thrummed in every available cell in his body.

It wasn’t altogether even Peter’s _actions_ so much (though, to be fair, it was a great deal Peter’s actions). It was the vulnerable position that he was placed in. Jonah had debated for weeks whether coming out to Penbrooke Manor was an unnecessary precaution, and now it seemed that coming to Penbrooke Manor hadn’t been good enough. Having been knocked completely out of his own head and surrendering to a 24-year-old autopilot? One that was clearly a fool, who had been taken in by a greater fool? It made Jonah want to tear out his hair. He had _told_ Elias Bouchard not to trust him.

Sulking, Jonah glanced up to the bathroom mirror and saw Peter reflected in the bedroom. He let out an angry snort and looked to the side. For a time, he just listened to the water splash into the bath. At least the warmth coming out of the water was something. He smelled like muck and salt water. It hadn’t exactly been a short fall, either, and Jonah wouldn’t be surprised if bruises didn’t develop over his body.

He wasn’t used to Elias’ proportions. When he shoved Peter, he’d felt a burst of self-satisfaction – only to be replaced by terror as he realized that he’d moved his center of gravity too far forward. Over the gangway he went. He felt like a half-drowned cat.

“Unlicked cub,” Jonah grunted, staring down at the heat rising from the water. There was no real venom in his voice anymore. “Woolley-crown squirish bastard.”

In many ways, Jonah had adapted to modern life. He was not about to be overtaken by someone with a better grasp on technology. However, there was nothing more _deeply_ fulfilling than swearing using the terms that he had learned as a child and young adult. He had learned so many of them from sailors, and really, who else could be more viscerally creative?

It’d been far too close. Far, _far_ too close. He’d practically been on the boat, and then where would he be? An empty-headed fool for the rest of his days, _if_ Peter didn’t toss him over the second they were out in deeper waters? Jonah shivered while sitting on the tub, and it wasn’t entirely due to the cold.

“Jonah.” Peter spoke from the bedroom, and Jonah wrinkled his nose on the tub.

“Oh, he finally speaks.”

“Are you going to stop being a – “

That got Jonah hopping to his feet, standing in the doorway with his hand on either side of the doorframe. “That is _rich,_ Peter. What, are you going to accuse me of being unreasonable? Moody? Volatile? You were going to feed my soul, ounce by ounce, to your patron. I really would _not_ like to hear about how _you_ feel about all this.”

The bedroom door slammed. Scowling, Jonah returned to the bath and stepped into the water.

“Jackass,” he muttered. At least the water was good and hot, and he sank down to his shoulders. That helped the soreness all over his body. _Christ,_ he ought to have just shoved Peter’s head down until he drowned, he really should have. His problem, Jonah considered, was that he was far too merciful to stupid brats.

The feeling that had shot through him when he came to on the gangway, seeing himself reflected in Peter’s glasses, had been nothing short of terror. He had been able to see the deck of the ship through the fog, just barely. He most certainly had not been able to see the pier. It had been so chilling. Frankly, pushing Peter had been a reflex more than any elaborate plan.

While it wasn’t Jonah’s worst nightmare come to life, it was certainly getting there. Jonah was no stranger to juggling multiple threats at a time, though usually not so close to home. No, the truth of the matter was that he would have to be _much_ more proactive about keeping himself safe. He still had no idea what brought Elias to the front of his mind, but Peter was very easy to push.

Jonah wasn’t sure what happened, really, to the people whose bodies he took. Did they die, like everyone else on Earth died, the moment they gave up? Did they exist in some hibernating state of torment, asleep but not truly dead? Did they remain perfectly aware and immobile, a front-row seat to Jonah’s life?

Such questions were philosophically fascinating but practically useless. Either way, there always came a point where the body’s original tenants were no longer an issue. But, given Elias’ trouble, he _did_ hope that he was in some measure of pain.

“Fool.” It wasn’t directed at Peter this time, but instead at the man inside of his own head. He stared across the bath at the polished tiles that formed the splashback. Jonah could see himself reflected in them in a thousand different distorted ways. “You really thought that Peter Lukas, of all people, would _help_ you. I told you as much, didn’t I?”

He raised one hand out of the water languidly and gestured towards the tiles. “Think about this rationally, Elias. Why would I tell you something that would risk harming this body? I’ve gone to all this trouble. Now, I grant you that I _obviously_ wouldn’t say as much if I knew of a way to cleave our minds … but if there were, don’t you think I would have done so already to get the rest of _you – “_ Jonah pointed towards the tile. “Out of _me?”_ He pointed towards himself, his fingertip grazing against the fine blond hairs on his chest.

“Besides, and I hope you don’t mind me being curt – but you really _are_ in a spot of trouble if you place your life in the hands of Peter Lukas. He could not find his arse with both hands.” Jonah held his breath and dipped his head briefly under the water, wetting and darkening his hair. He pressed it back from his head to keep it from running into his eyes. Like this, it almost looked like the hair he’d had as a young man. It’d been nice hair, before everything had gone wrong. Brown with a touch of wave to it, Jonah had gotten in the habit of parting it so that a flop fell down on either side of his temples. His mother had once called him _cherubic._

Then, after – well. It was so dirty as to appear almost black and had the texture of straw. Jonah often looked like he’d been struck by a bolt of electricity. He had had the energy to match.

Jonah cupped water in both of his hands and pushed it through his hair again. Icy water trickled down his back. “In some ways, I envy you, if you must know.” He wished he had thought to bring a glass of wine up with him, a way to relax. “Being permitted to watch all of this without having to actually do anything. _You_ might be the fortunate one between us. I have to do the work. You’re a, ah …” Lord, what had the term been? “A hitchhiker, practically. Except, in the metaphor, I suppose I stole your automobile in the first place.”

Truthfully, he really only envied Elias if Elias didn’t die the moment he gave up. He saw no reason to forward that particular tidbit on, though.

He stayed in the bath until the water became unbearable. The entire while, he didn’t hear a peep from Peter. No slamming from the front door either, though that meant little when his husband could vanish at will. Good. Jonah changed into his other suit and took his time about it. He even took the time to polish his rings using his shaving kit before putting them on, one by one. Even, unfortunately, his wedding band.

_Much_ better. Jonah was not going to be venturing out into the cold fog into his pajamas again, he would say that much.

A wander downstairs to prepare something for lunch indicated that Peter had not left the Manor. Instead, he was sitting in the den with the fire going. At least that had dried him off, apparently, or Peter had entirely frozen solid while he was sitting there. He certainly looked stiff in the chair. The fire crackled and threw orange light and shadows around the room, only contrasting the frigid white expanse and dreary off-green hill through the windows. “How cozy,” Jonah cooed, unable to resist a pointed barb as he disappeared to the kitchen.

It seemed that Peter had not fled off to the _Tundra._ How unusual. While he prepared a sandwich (something quick, filling, because he was _not_ going to test Elias’ tastebuds on anything more elegant today), Jonah mentally went through all the … _interesting_ tidbits of Peter’s life. The whine of static filled his ears when he chose something particularly compelling.

_The teams were uneven. They were playing a game of football in the empty lot, like they did every day after school. ‘cept Liam was sick with the chicken pox, which meant that there was one less person on Mark’s team, and that just wouldn’t do. Because everyone knew that Oscar could’ve held an entire team on his own and everyone else – Leo and Barry and Froggy (named for the time someone had stuffed a frog in his shoe, the squish that had made!) was practically just window dressing. Mark didn’t want to lose again, because Oscar could be a real prick about things._

_Hearing_ _the boys argue about a girl (a new point of conversation, girls, Mark wasn’t sure when that had come about and really did not see the appeal), Mark languidly looked across the street to see that boy walking again. Mark saw him every time they played football. H_ _e was a strange-looking boy, Mark’s father probably_ _have liked Mark talking to him_ _. Every day, all dressed up like it was his baptism, the boy would walk down the street and stare at the houses. Sometimes Mark even saw him walk back if they played particularly late. Sometimes he’d even stare at the lot where they were playing football._

_It struck him that the boy might’ve just been lonely. Not everyone had friends to play football with. Mark understood that. He’d only moved here a few years back, and eating lunch alone for weeks had been one of the most painful things he’d experienced in his young life. He’d moved to eating in the stairwell so nobody could call him a girl for crying. And then the boys had swooped in and ate lunch with him there, and almost like magic, it had become something cool to do instead of a sign of freakishness._

“ _Hey, you!” Mark called, jogging across the street and stopping in front of the boy. He was all smiles and sunny demeanor. When it came to asking adults for things, everyone always agreed that Mark was the one to go and charm the pants off anyone. “D’you want to play football with us? We need another player.”_

_The boy looked at him like he wasn’t sure what football was. “W-what?” Oh, weird! His voice was so soft, so trembling. Was he about to cry? He looked like he was about to cry. Mark beamed even wider, trying to seem some sort of welcoming._

“ _What’s your name?”_

“ _Peter?” The boy’s answer had a definite uncertain quality to it. “Peter Lukas?” He might’ve been even younger than Mark thought, maybe he was just big and tall? He sounded like some sort of baby but he was built like a wall._

_Oh, they were_ so _going to stick this kid by the goalposts. They’d never be able to get anything past him. Mark slung an arm around the kid’s shoulders and turned to face the others. “Hey guys!” Mark shouted out, and the entire group turned around to meet them. “This is my friend Peter! He’s going to come play!”_

“Enough,” Peter rumbled from inside the living room. Jonah finished the rest of his sandwich and smirked to himself, putting the dish in the sink. He didn’t budge from the chair that he was sitting on. Jonah could spy a bottle and a tumbler out there. The glass was slowly starting to frost over. Oh, he _had_ gotten under Peter’s skin.

“I’m only reminiscing. A little walk down memory lane never hurt anyone. “ He brushed the crumbs off the side of his mouth.

“Oh? And what about the end part of that, where I punched that brat in the eye and ran off?”

“I don’t seem to recall that. I thought that you ran off to join them, and you became lifelong friends.” At least, that was how Jonah was going to modify the memory to shove into Peter’s brain like an icepick. He stood in the doorway to watch Peter in the chair. It didn’t seem like the fire had warmed his skin at all, nearly translucently pale under the light.

“What do you want?” Peter’s voice seemed weary – more deliciously, though, Peter seemed _defeated._ “To harass me until I … do what, exactly? Go back to the _Tundra?”_

“The biome, if not the vessel, yes.” Jonah shrugged his shoulders and stepped out into the warm den. He hooked one finger on the inside of Peter’s glass and took it away, downing it. Oh, brandy. Peter had impeccable taste in that. “Peter, you’ve clearly seen my little secret. And now you’ve tried to kill me over it. How am I ever meant to trust you?”

“You’ve never trusted me a day in your life.”

“ _Not_ true.” Jonah jutted one finger in Peter’s direction. “I let you warm my bed.”

That made Peter chuckle, shaking his head. He took the bottle itself and brought it to his lips. “I was close, though, you’ve got to admit that. Another couple of steps. I didn’t even _think_ about the blasted glasses.”

And … well. “You were close,” Jonah admitted, somewhat meek. “So, obviously, you see my dilemma.” He held his glass out loosely over the arm of the chair. In tandem, Peter stretched out his own hand and filled it with the bottle. “I can’t have someone here that I think is going to take the first opportunity to kill me.”

“And you’ve got no plans on killing me, I presume?”

Jonah’s hand flew to his chest in mock outrage. “ _Dar-_ ling,” he accused as if scandalized. Frankly, he wasn’t sure how well Peter caught on, but Peter didn’t press further on it. He wouldn’t, though. Jonah was rarely that bloodthirsty. And he did need Peter for some things.

“Well, I don’t want to go back to the _Tundra._ Too much faff. So we’ll have to come to an agreement. Do you think _that_ is going to happen again?” Peter extracted an old wooden pipe from his pocket and filled it with tobacco from a pouch. He held it out to Jonah. Jonah withdrew a book of matches from his pocket, struck one, and lit Peter’s pipe from his chair. “The thing with your head,” he clarified, his words mumbled from the pipe in his mouth.

Jonah let out a beleaguered sigh. “I don’t know. The host hasn’t ever clung on quite so long.”

“I think it’s just the younger generation these days, no sense to them,” Peter remarked as if bestowing some sort of grand truth on Jonah. Jonah couldn’t help but roll his eyes. How long ago had he thought the same of Peter’s _grandfather’s_ generation? “What are you going to do if he takes over again?”

“Well, Peter, there’s not much I _can_ do. When I lose control like that, it’s as if I simply passed out.” Jonah worried his lower lip, before bringing the glass back to his lips again. He didn’t like being so powerless there. The length of these blackouts wildly varied. What if he simply went one day and he never switched back?

Peter hummed something, puffing away on his pipe. Jonah liked the smell of tobacco. It brought back some of the most enjoyable memories of his youth. And yet, Peter hadn’t ever smelled like tobacco in his life, just that same sharp scent of trees and chill. Strange. “You can look in my mind, surely. Realize that I’m not in any sort of mood to try and kill you. Elias was _exhausting_ to speak with, for one thing.”

“I can only see what your decision is at _right_ this moment, I can’t make any sort of confirmation as to the future. And I’m hardly in the mood to check in on your mind every five minutes.”

“Well, what if we came to an agreement? I give you some information that’ll help you deal with Elias. And you make me a promise.”

Before he could think about it, Jonah did take a peek into Peter’s mind. Peter’s intentions were honest. He had no further plans to attack him, and was frankly feeling rather put-out that for all his trouble, all he’d gotten was exhausting conversation from a child and verbal beratement from his husband. Peter went over what happened in his head again.

How _adorable,_ Elias had held a weapon to Peter’s throat. Peter had even begun to see that Jonah’s death may not even be in his best interest, given the amount of information he got from him whenever he stopped by London. And … oh, now, that was truly precious. Peter was planning a Ritual and thought it might be best not to disturb any existing power structures before he put his plans into action. It was such a dinky procedure.

The ‘ _information’_ that Peter wanted to give him, Jonah could tell, was actually rather useful. If Elias saw a glimpse of Jonah’s eyes, he went right back into his skull again. Interesting. He could work with that, couldn’t he? Keep a few extra mirrors around, mix things up a bit. All it took was one slip.

Now, of course this meant that Peter had no more leverage to give him, but Jonah wasn’t going to let him _know_ that. Sometimes it behooved him just as well to let the big man feel important. “What sort of promise?”

“I’m working on something.” Peter admitted. He took another swig from the bottle, temporarily pulling his pipe away from his lips. Some of the ash scattered on the floor. Messy, messy. “And I’ll need your word that you won’t try to look in my head about what it is. Won’t try to interfere, either. For the next six months.”

A smile split wide across Jonah’s face. Truly. What sort of fool did Peter take him for. “You’ve got a deal.” He stuck his hand out for Peter to shake. “Would you like me to, ah, keep the others away from you while you implement your … plan?”

Peter’s face became thoughtful, as if he hadn’t quite considered that part. “You would do that?”

“Oh, I would be _delighted,_ darling.” He would love to see that dumpster fire burn without anyone coming in and complicating things. That would be just his luck, wouldn’t it? Simon might take pity and allow Peter to save some face, but Jonah would want to see the man utterly humiliated. It would be a lovely time. Not the worst Ritual he’d ever seen implemented, but definitely down there.

“There you are. Now you’ve got a very good reason to trust me, don’t you? And – well, the information bit is just something Elias told me when he woke up. The thing that turns him off is seeing his reflection in the mirror.”

Jonah fancied that he would have been an excellent actor, if given the opportunity. He’d been doing it for so long. “That’s _fascinating,_ isn’t it,” he murmured in a far-away voice, his fingertips pressed against his chin. “Something to consider. I think that’ll work out just nicely.”

That seemed to curb any suspicion, and Peter sat back in his chair, puffing away at his pipe. Jonah, for his part, did believe that Peter wasn’t at all inclined to go after him again. Dangle a small treat in front of him and he would roll right over. Threaten him with a chatty stick and he’d keep running. Jonah pulled his knees up onto the chair where he was sitting, staring into the fire. He took slow sips of his brandy. Elias had no taste for the finer things, clearly, and Jonah would have to put a change to that.

Thoroughly against his will, he had to begrudgingly admit that he did feel better with Peter in Penbrooke Manor. Although he wouldn’t trust Peter with anything that required more than a single brain cell, Peter was physically stronger than him and able to restrain him if Elias got a stupid idea on his head.

They sat in silence for more than an hour, with Jonah occasionally reaching up to touch his forehead. All was well in the Magnus Institute. Gertrude was actively rifling through the papers in his office, but even she knew that she would find nothing of interest there. Still, when would she ever get that chance again? Oh, and she’d brought along the Keay boy. How wonderful. The flowers and memorial placed outside of his door had started to wilt.

Jonah hadn’t even realized that he’d nodded off. He blamed it on the brandy; he must have had more of it than he realized. _That,_ and he’d been dumped in ice cold water earlier today. It’d been thoroughly tiresome.

He opened his eyes and uncurled his limbs. The fire had died. The room was cold. Peter no longer sat in his chair. Enough socialization for one evening, Jonah supposed. Stretching his arms out, Jonah forced himself up from the chair and turned to get the bottle of brandy and the glass. They were both replaced in the kitchen before Jonah went upstairs to retrieve the rest of his novel. He’d packed three more in his suitcase if necessary. One particularly intrigued him. Late 1700s/early 1800s gallantry romance often did.

The nap had done him well, honestly. He felt entirely relaxed and pleasantly groggy. Perhaps he wouldn’t even go back downstairs to read, perhaps he’d finish his novel and take another nap in bed. Holidays _were_ nice, weren’t they? Jonah had expected to feel an anxious buzzing at his core about not making _progress_ in his work, but … well, even the Eye seemed to understand that switching bodies could be difficult.

Jonah retrieved his book from the nightstand and put it on the bed. He had just sat down to remove his shoes before Jonah collapsed to the side, going slack.

***

Gray eyes reflected at him off a gray blade. His eyes might very well be made out of steel themselves, were it not the wide black dot in the centers. It took Jonah a second to realize what he was looking at. Both his hands were wrapped around the wooden handle of his straight razor. The razor itself was unfolded and the top portion was pointed directly at his right eye. He came to with his heart pounding in his chest.

Jonah raised his eyes to the mirror. He was sitting on his bed with the straight razor clenched tightly between his hands. Had he stopped Elias a millisecond before he plunged it into his eye? Or had Elias sat there, deliberating for hours on whether to do it? Jonah could feel his back and underarms slick with sweat. His face was warm and stiff like he’d been crying.

He dropped the razor as if it were burning, jumping up from the bed. His watch told him that it’d been no longer than five minutes after he’d first entered the bedroom, the shortest time that Elias had had control. _Christ,_ the only reason he’d gotten out was the reflection from the bloody razor. Hard to prepare for that, Jonah could grant, nobody really thought of straight razors as particularly reflective surfaces. Jonah was suddenly _deeply_ glad that he sharpened it every other week, disallowing it from getting dull or cloudy.

The shock started to wear off quickly. Jonah pressed one hand against his throat, staring at himself in the bedroom mirror. Elias _had_ gotten off the deep end, hadn’t he? Certainly he knew very well that gouging out his own eyes wouldn’t do a thing but getting _both_ of them killed, especially out here on this isolated little island. “You wanted to do it with a _straight razor?”_ Jonah demanded the mirror. A straight razor was not a _gouging_ tool. A straight razor was not a dagger, it had no pointed tip to it. The sharp portion was broad and flat. A straight razor could be used to slit someone’s throat, or in an absolute pinch, a garrote. It was almost like Elias had never murdered someone before.

More than anything else, Jonah was (rather understandably, in his opinion) _furious._

“Because you didn’t get your way, you’ll see _both_ of us dead?” Jonah demanded the mirror. He flung the straight razor towards it. The wooden handle clattered against the surface but didn’t crack it. “How narrow-minded _are_ you. I’ve been nothing but honest and warm you to, Elias, and you’re treating my generosity with – with _childish_ behavior!”

He stalked off towards the bathroom, fire in his expression. Jonah looked back at his own wild eyes in the mirror. Elias clearly hadn’t even had time to customarily ruffle his appearance. No doubt that he’d came to and grabbed the first sharp-ish object that he could find. Luck had saved him twice now, and his anger fed off that fear.

“This is _not_ your body. Do you understand? You are a _ghost_ that cannot accept its fate. No more!” Jonah demanded. His nostrils flared, he grabbed the stone countertops so hard that he thought his knuckles might pop. Elias’ dirty blond hair started to irrationally enrage him. Jonah Magnus would not keep his hair so untidy, so _messy._ So why should it remain like that? It wasn’t like he wasn’t going to allow _Elias Bouchard_ to have a say in how he looked.

Jonah went to his bag of toiletries and practically tore it open. “Your fate was sealed the moment that you stepped into the Institute, you brat. Do you understand? Do you think it was chance that led you there? Do you think you had any possibility of escaping once you were hired? You have had more than year to make yourself comfortable with your demise, and still you insist on _this!”_ His fingers passed over zippered pouches and clear containers, before alighting on a black fabric wrap. He unrolled it, exposing several pairs of scissors and what appeared to be a powder brush. “ _These!_ These are what you can use to stab out a man’s eye!” Jonah brandished them at the mirror, their pointed tips gleaming against the overhead light. “You can’t do anything correctly, even if your _life_ depended on it.”

While Jonah would have preferred to have it done at his usual stylist, of course, desperate times led to desperate measures. Jonah reached for his hair, yanked it down, and started to snip. Everything would have to be changed. Any old sloppy clothing of Elias’ would be burned in the fireplace by sunset, Jonah vowed. “There is one time I lied to you, wasn’t there?” Jonah’s voice had gotten quieter, more solid in his anger. “When I said that you and I were alike. Rest assured that I am _nothing_ like you. Do you understand?” Snip, snip, snip. Fragments of blond hair started to blot the sink. “You were given every opportunity in the world, and you squandered it. Your father was so _right_ in his assertion. You are lazy. You are ungrateful. Your life was _worthless_ and I have made it into something more. Something great. And you continue to disrespect me.”

Jonah was no longer looking at himself in the mirror, but instead focusing on where he was slowly edging the scissors. “What you lack is conviction. Even this little … _tantrum_ of yours will pass with no real success.” Snip, snip, snip. Jonah crossed over the middle of his forehead and momentarily met his cold gray eyes in the mirror, before moving on. “Elias, I have control over your _mind._ Do you know what that means? I know _everything_ you have ever done. Every word you’ve ever spoken. Every taboo or unconscionable thought that you ever tried to shove down. You are _nothing,_ and you died as _nothing._ And the only act in your life worth anything _was not even orchestrated by you.”_

An angry growl erupted from deep within his throat as Jonah nicked his ear in his haste. _Fine._ He hardly cared, because he was slowly starting to change. Elias Bouchard, the near-dropout pothead, was no longer staring him back in the mirror. It was _him._ “Do you want to know what _conviction_ looks like?” Jonah snarled. Blood had started to drip down, getting lost in the curves of his ear. The cut was not severe and he let it run. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you every word of how I came to be here so you can understand what _exactly you are up against._ And then, for the love of _Christ,_ you’ll understand that your best option is also your greatest talent: _giving up.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo he big mad


	5. A Story in Three Parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Classism, murder, drug use, manipulation, accidental death from falling, voyeurism

Jonah Magnus was an only child. He was unaware of it at the time, but there was a great deal of commotion surrounding his birth. His father was unfaithful and believed himself to be infertile. His mother was unfaithful and was certain that she’d have to abscond with the newborn in the dark of night. Fortunately, her baby boy had the same cold gray eyes of his father. From that day on, his mother was frequently seen by the altar of the church and his father instantly cut off all connections to his mistresses.

Men who have reached a certain state of wealth all tend to do the same thing. Ostensibly, Jonah knew that his father traded this or that. A few ships bore his name. He never cared to learn any more than he absolutely had to . They lived in a grand estate of three-hundred acres and a staff that outnumbered them twenty-to-one. Jonah was rarely ever alone but frequently lonely.

The loneliness did not make him kind.

He had every need tended for and waiting any amount of time for his requests to be fulfilled made him impatient. His tutors thought he was brilliant but overconfident. When toys bored him, he became cruel. Jonah knew that power he wielded over his staff when his father dismissed one per his wishes, and any goodwill that a cherubic child might have had over them vanished completely.

The spoiled child grew into a spoiled teen. A rift began to grow between him and his father – and to say that there was a rift between he and his mother implied that they were ever connected to begin with. His father wanted him to carry on the family business. Jonah had no qualms about that, so long as it required him to do no work. Tensions rose. It was not an uncommon sight to see Jonah storming out of the manor into the woods. He would return hours later, smelling of frost and evergreen.

He was well-educated but not terribly passionate. Philosophy and religion fascinated him for a time, until whatever prayers a cruel boy sent up to God went unanswered. He cast it aside, unwanted. He completed his studies in maths, literature, history, science with a bored sort of ease. He became fluent in several languages and used none of them. He learned how to ride, hunt, and swim. Education filled the entirety of his days, and yet Jonah Magnus seemed deeply bored with all life to offer.

His father would frequently hold galas and garden parties on the estate. Jonah would go down and mingle for a few minutes. This was agreeable to both him and his father, because Jonah hated everyone and everyone found Jonah off-putting. Jonah stared, they would complain. Jonah’s expressions were menacing. Jonah always seemed like he was sneering behind their backs. He would gleefully abscond up to the attic after he was freed from that constraint. There were few things that gave Jonah joy, but this was one of them.

From a spot up in the attic, Jonah could see the entire garden and all the guests. The watching had, at first, only been another in the line of cruel jokes. Look at the simpleton who just dropped a tray. Look at those two women make fun of Father behind his back. Look at the maid flirt with the nobleman. Eventually, though, it grew into … well. Were it not for the subject matter hand, it would have been termed a hobby.

How concealed people thought they were, when they thought nobody was watching them from above! It gave Jonah a thrill. He had journals up there where he kept notes on what he saw. Jonah watched people have trysts in the hedge garden. He watched the guests get their valuables pickpocketed. He watched people stick guns in each other’s faces behind the barn. During one memorable garden party, one of Father’s prized dog’s puppies had been stolen. Jonah had watched it happen, and watched his Father interrogate all the staff harshly for hours. There was something so exhilarating about knowing it had actually been Father’s business partner.

Jonah began to go into the attic more frequently, even when there were no parties to be had. After all, the staff had secrets like anybody else and there always some spilling across the grounds. He even purchased a telescope to reduce his eye strain.

Eventually, Jonah couldn’t be pleased with just the attic. He began to prowl around the manor, just around the corner or on the other side of closed doors. So many secrets whispered just out of sight! Jonah would forego sleeping to stalk the staff’s quarters at night, would refuse to sit at the table so he could listen to the chefs gossip in the kitchen. Staff began to complain that they could feel eyes on them even when everyone knew young Master Magnus was asleep in his bed.

His father grew more frustrated with his behavior, if only because Jonah had completely refused to apprentice himself. He always had limited interest in continuing the family business, and now it appeared that Jonah had no interest in anything at all. He had not even considered taking a wife. He had presumed that his son was rarely seen because he was off causing the trouble that young boys do in the village. It took a maid to inform him that Master Magnus was to be found in the attic if he was to be found anywhere.

Mounting the stairs, his father saw the nest that his son had created. There was threadbare blankets, rotting food, a chamber-pot. He had given his son a bedroom fit for a king, the most enticing food in Europe , and any number of garderobes – and Jonah preferred to stay up here, like a common servant? His eyes fell on the telescope pointed outside of the window, and while the elder Magnus came to the wrong conclusion – it would not have made him any angrier than knowing the truth.

So his son was an astronomer, was he? He knew that he shouldn’t have requested the tutors teach him about the findings of Herschel and Halley. Such charlatans put too many ideas in that boy’s head. He had never shown real conviction, and now he was more interested in the heavens than earth. His son was going to destroy everything that he had worked so hard to create. The father had been born with nothing and his son would die with nothing. Enraged, Jonah’s father picked up the telescope and hurled it outside the window. The glass shattered in a hundred directions and the body rested in the dirt, dented beyond repair.

Jonah had returned from hunting with a rifle slung over his back. He didn’t care for hunting. The slaughter was fine enough, he supposed, but what need did he have for hunting when there was meat of all kinds in the kitchen? He intentionally scared off every animal they approached to avoid the labor of cutting and skinning it. Eventually, his hunting instructor grew frustrated and cut the lesson short, and Jonah smugly rode back to the manor.

He dismounted his horse and approach what remained of his precious telescope. Jonah looked up and saw the shattered attic window. He looked back down at his telescope.

Meanwhile, behind him, his instructor approached on horseback. He’d always had less patience for Master Magnus than the rest, likely because he taught away from the manor and his father’s eye. He began to lay into a lecture about how a hunter must always stable their horses as soon as the hunt was finished and not let them run about the grounds like a common barbari –

The scream of a gunshot shattered the air and the hunting instructor was blown back. His chest had turned into a heaving red cavern, before it collapsed entirely. The blood began to soak in the green grass that was so lovingly tended to by the resident gardener.

Jonah glared down at the body, his nose twitching. He still had the hunting rifle in his hands. The shot still rang in his ears and oh, god, he hated hunting. Why did gunshots have to be quite so loud?

It sounded odd for a boy of sixteen, but Jonah did not at once realize he was dead. He had so little experience with death. There was hunting, of course, but that didn’t count. Those were animals. Their greatest achievement was only given in death, vis-a-vis their meat. Jonah imagined that livestock had to be put down, but he’d never seen it done. That was servant work.

The rifle was replaced on his back; the end of it still smoked. Jonah walked over to his hunting instructor and stood over his chest, curiously. Yes, that was what he had learned in his anatomy course, wasn’t it? Fascinating. So much different than what he saw in his textbooks. So much more colorful. His instructor was gasping for breath, and every inhale made his innards quiver.

He almost applauded his hunting instructor’s acting ability. Jonah had opened his mouth to say that while this was a very amusing show, it was time for him to stand up and get on with his day. He’d even have the instructor stable his horse, he thought, while he went to go and deal with this telescope mystery. And then – his instructor’s head fell back, his breathing stopped, and the entire body went still. The shift from person to carcass was less than a second.

His hunting instructor was dead. Jonah blinked his eyes, nudged the man’s head with the bottom of his boot. Dead? But he couldn’t be dead. It hadn’t even taken a second for Jonah to decide to shoot him. He’d been so frustrated. Certainly that wasn’t enough to rob a man of his life.

Because … well, death was the end of everything, wasn’t it? All of a man’s accomplishments and fears and loves dried up the second that death came. Jonah wrapped his arms around himself protectively, an animalistic sort of terror brewing inside of him. No, that couldn’t be. That couldn’t be it. Jonah was such a large part of his own world, and to think that everything would just vanish – and that death could happen so randomly – so senselessly – so quickly! People just lived like this? Went along their days, knowing that all of their heroics and downfalls would someday be thrown in the same black void?

His father had withstood most of Jonah’s rebellions. Perhaps if the murder hadn’t occurred on the same day as the telescope discovery, Jonah would have been eventually forgiven. Perhaps if Jonah had shown true remorse for once in his life. But Jonah didn’t show anything but mild confusion, responding to any prompted questions with monosyllabic mumbles. He seemed to be deep in thought, never breaking his steely gaze from the corpse in front of him.

Jonah’s father would never admit it. He claimed that he sent Jonah away in order to teach him determination, hard work, humility. It was a decision that was wildly praised by most of his father’s business partners, and the reason why a half-dozen of their children were sent away to various cities across the cont in ent in order to learn their trade. Towards the end of Jonah’s father’s life, he even began to believe that was the reason. He would never see his son again.

But the real reason was fear. Something in Jonah’s gaze terrified his father. Rational human beings had a natural revulsion towards death. Jonah glared at it like an inconvenience.

He was sent to London with money that felt like a bribe and an apprenticeship that felt like a hail-Mary. Jonah had been placed in a basement room whose only window faced a brick wall, and he couldn’t help but rage against the injustice of it all. Cast from his father’s favor, Jonah felt like he’d been thrown into the rest of the world without so much as an ounce of sympathy.

The apprenticeship to a businessman was quickly dissolved, because Jonah never showed up. If his father wrote letters chastising him, he didn’t open them. Jonah fell into a deep melancholy. What was the point of it all, then, if kings and peasants reached the same end? Jonah laid in his room for weeks, languishing away, listening to the muffled sounds of passersby outside. What, he asked himself hourly, was the point?

Why work for anything, if it was all for naught? He realized that he was going to meet his end either way, and he could either perish in his bed or enjoy himself with vice. Jonah embraced hedonism (a polite term that he would use in his journals for centuries to come, though the less appropriate explanation was that he took many drugs and slept with many men). He was handsome and young and could play the part of the pretty little fool when too many questions were asked.

Jonah rarely began to return to his room, preferring instead to haunt the East End and Limehouse district. He lived this way for two years, almost instantaneously wasting all money that his father had given him. When he couldn’t charm what he wanted out of people, Jonah would occasionally serve swill at a pub where sailors used to frequent. He liked the stories they seemed to throw at him as if Jonah had plucked it straight out of their head. Jonah learned more in those years than he had from all of his tutors – save for, perhaps, his hunting instructor.

Jonah wouldn’t go so far as to say that he made friends, but some faces became more familiar. He found a group of individuals that always seemed to know where to go, and he followed them. They didn’t like him much, and were probably right not to, but Jonah always seemed to know too much about them for them to bristle too much under his gaze.

No thoughts of death entered Jonah’s mind. He didn’t allow them. If they dared rear themselves up like some wild beast, Jonah would respond to the call by going to the chemist’s or molly-house. Would he call himself happy? That was the point of vice, wasn’t it? To neatly divide one’s mood into highs and lows. To keep it predictable – if not stable. Jonah lived and thought none of death. He saw it, of course. It was impossible to walk through East End and not see it. Even if you were fortunate enough not to see a corpse, you smelled the filth in the air and heard the wails of the bereaved. Tuberculosis and violence were contagious in those crowded slums.

Jonah had grown up on an extravagantly large estate with servants at his beck and call. He was not about to start feeling sympathy for paupers.

It happened one day, towards the evening. Jonah and his associates (or, more accurately, a group of friends and Jonah) were walking along the dockyard near Woolwich. They were passing a bottle of laudanum back and forth between them. 13% opium and 48% alcohol, it was perhaps the closest thing to a god that Jonah believed in. He privately suspected that something else had been added – he hadn’t ever seen a tincture of opium higher than 10% - but he hadn’t been the first to drink it, so he didn’t care much. Like usual, Jonah remained near the back of the group, only occasionally being passed the bottle.

They were quite rowdy after the intoxicating effects had set in. One of them – a cocky fellow named Ambrose – was rather loudly mimicking the cough he’d put on at the chemist’s to fake asthma. Jonah knew the chemist wouldn’t care. When five boys wandered in to politely ask for laudanum, they weren’t precisely going to ask for anything other than recreation. Still, it made the other three roar with laughter. Jonah watched the proceedings curiously.

As they drank through the bottle, the men all began to stumble and slur their words. Jonah quite liked the feeling of it. Not only did it clear away any treacherous thoughts in his mind, people became so vulnerable when their minds were befuddled. Peeled away, he could stare right into their souls. Jonah was delighted with how filthy he found them, every time. Everyone was terrible! How enchanting! How funny that they acted like some moral goodness existed in the world, that their dirt was something to hide.

Ambrose sprinted forward, nearly falling on his arse. He leapt up onto a small stone block that marked the nearby bridge abutment. He wavered dangerously before sticking both arms out to his sides as if waiting for applause. The three boys gave it to him. Jonah only watched.

“Isn’t this the life, gentlemen!” Ambrose announced. They cheered and passed the laudanum bottle up to him. “No worries in the world! Just my mates and a bottle of liquid sunshine.” He up-ended the bottle again. Streaks of the reddish-brown stuff coated his chin. It reminded Jonah of his hunting instructor, but they hadn’t much liked the comparison when he brought it up last time.

Jonah remembered nearly falling asleep on his feet. It was getting late and the opium made him drowsy. God. He ought to have just went to the tavern and sidled up to a sailor. At least then he’d be warm in a room somewhere, instead of watching Ambrose (who had a reputable interview for a job in a few days and was quietly deeply terrified because he bled money like water when he had it) make a fool of himself. “And – “ he continued, his words slurred. “Let’s hear it for the new faces, eh!”

Oh. Everyone turned to face him. Jonah’s face grew warm at the attention. He didn’t like eyes on him, even if he could hardly see everyone in the darkness. “Ehm - “

“You’re one creepy rum cull, owl-eyes,” Ambrose slurred out, and Jonah twitched once. It was not the first time Ambrose had commented on his eyes. Jonah had never thought to be self-conscious before – the staff from home weren’t going to comment on his looks. But several lovers had also made the same remark that Ambrose just made. Jonah’s light gray eyes were in stark contrast to his black pupils, which grew as wide as an owl’s when he got excited. He supposed that he was well living up to the nickname now, in the dark London street. “But you aren’t too bad. We’ll even forgive you for being born wealthy!”

Jonah raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed at the attention, but nevertheless waved him off like they were dear old friends. The action made him go stumbling to the side, and he had to catch himself.

And then Ambrose made a move to jump off. In kicking his foot back, he entirely lost his center of balance. In their states, nobody knew what was going on until it was too late. Ambrose’s hands waved comically to the side for a moment, trying to retain his balance, before he went toppling over the side of the walkway.

Perhaps Jonah would have drummed up some sympathetic thought, but soaked through with alcohol and opium, Jonah only wondered if he would hear a crack or a splash.

It was the former. They all rushed forward to lean against the edge of the bridge, looking down. Ambrose had fallen quite a ways and landed on a drain pipe. He had been about six inches away from falling in the Thames, though from this height and in his state – well, Jonah wasn’t so sure he would have survived either way. The bottle of laudanum was still there, cracked in pieces and starting to drip viscous red down the curve of the pipe. In the other direction, Ambrose’s head did the same.

“Oh my – Jesus Christ, we’ve got to help him, someone go call for a constable!”

What a constable was going to do, he didn’t know. Jonah had all but tuned them out already, staring down at Ambrose’s broken body on the drainage pipe below. He was dead. They were drunken fools if they didn’t see that; Jonah was half unconscious from opium and he could see that Ambrose would not be rising again. Jonah found that he couldn’t look away. The fingers on his right hand were still slightly crooked, like he’d been holding onto the bottle until the very end.

What a waste.

Not Ambrose himself, of course. Jonah cared more for the bottle he was holding than the man himself. That stuff had been good. But seeing Ambrose there shattered the world that Jonah had been living in, for the second time.

Desperate. That was what Ambrose had been. Certainly, Jonah felt that his family had lived in denial about the concept of death. That was why he had been so shocked at the death of his instructor. But Ambrose had lived day-to-day in the most pleasure-seeking way possible. He had desperately been trying to cram as much enjoyment in his body as he could, because Ambrose did know what Jonah knew. Death could come at any time, in the most pointless way possible.

And yet, staring down at Ambrose’s body, he didn’t think Ambrose’s death had been any more meaningful than that of his hunting instructor. All of Ambrose’s enjoyment meant exactly nothing. If Jonah were to jump over the bridge and join him, all of the fun and pleasure that he’d experienced over the past two years? Nothing. The issue still remained. No matter what pleasures Jonah filled his life with, he was still going to die. All eventually saw their end.

Jonah’s shoulders slumped. He turned away from the bridge. The others had gone to get help. Really, the only use that could be done was making sure his body wasn’t nibbled at too much before it was recovered. They didn’t need his help with that. Jonah slunk away, disappearing into the dark streets of London.

The relative high of the opium passed, replaced only by weariness and misery. He wanted to go and crawl in a dark alley, but he was in the part of London where he figured that he would only be leaving such a place in pieces. Jonah had enough good sense to want to avoid pain. Jonah wrapped his arms around his torso and shuffled along, taking staggering steps in order to find his way home. When he had the luxury of time and daylight, Jonah avoided this area altogether. Less time spent with the paupers, the better.

If only he could create a part of himself that would last forever. That was what Jonah wanted, at the end of the day. How could somebody enjoy anything at all with the knowledge that their entire existence would obliterated in the blink of an eye? Jonah wanted more than to be remembered. He wanted to concentrate himself into some inseparable essence and store it somewhere, forever, so that he never had to enter into that void. He didn’t want to unknow himself.

Christ, it was so cold. Jonah wished for a drink, at least. He kept on the path and didn’t raise his head, looking like every other poor sod down on his luck. This was what Jonah Magnus had been reduced to, he thought sadly.

At least the quality of the streets improved the closer he got to his room. Still a decent amount of risk for getting robbed, of course, but the streets were emptier here. The moon was high in the sky now, providing ample light to walk by. It would have been pleasant, if he wasn’t coming down off an opium high and hadn’t decided that everything in life was ultimately meaningless for the second time.

Jonah blinked. The street was looking back at him.

Or, at least, that was the trick the moon was playing. Jonah turned towards the building opposite. It was a clubhouse, meant for older gentlemen that didn’t want to die alone at home and so spent their time with other rich geriatrics smoking cigars and complaining about wives. There were a few dozen of them in London, all with varying degrees of splendor and wealth associated. This must have been a rather wealthy one, indeed.

The front window of the clubhouse, set on the third floor, had a distinct oval shape. Wrought iron bars curved this way and that. Perhaps in the day, the sun and the people rendered the window less affecting. In the moonlight, however – it struck against the glass pane and was reflected on the street below. The image was unmistakable. A giant simple rendering of an eye stared up at him, unblinking.

Something stirred inside of Jonah.

That was grand, wasn’t it? A grand feat of architecture. That eye would stare at London forever, knowing its secrets. It was a massive thing. Easy to miss, if you weren’t paying attention, but there was a cleverness to its simplicity. Jonah found himself standing directly within the shadow of the eye, staring up at the great glass window.

Oh, this was where he was meant to be. Of course it was. How had Jonah been so foolish? This was exactly how he was going to do it. This eye belonged to him. This eye was him. If Jonah could somehow switch his soul and the soul of that giant glass window – well, he couldn’t imagine any finer pleasure. It might have been the opium convincing him of that fact, but in that moment, Jonah would have sworn his name on it.

Jonah crossed the street to reach the clubhouse. Closed, of course. Tempting to break in, but he decided against it. Even he couldn’t talk his way out of there if someone thought to call the police. Instead, he cleared the ivy away from a placard affixed to the front of the building. There, he saw the name of the clubhouse and the year it was built. And, at the very bottom, the name of the architect that had designed the building.

Robert Smirke.

Jonah committed the name to memory. He returned home in a daze, barely aware of anyone. It was his own luck that nobody brandished a knife at him, because Jonah knew that he would have pushed right on by.

The next morning, Jonah woke with renewed purpose. He was giddy as he bathed and washed himself. Yes, this was more alive than he’d felt in ages, and all it had taken was a chance encounter on the street. Jonah almost wanted to go back to that clubhouse, but he knew that it wouldn’t be as affecting during the day. He didn’t want to spoil the image in his mind.

Jonah wore the fine clothes that he’d brought from his family home for the first time in two years. He had not physically changed much, but he felt like he’d aged mentally about a century. A quick consult with a map later, and he was off to the office of Robert Smirke, architect on the Board of Works. Jonah had to stop himself from breaking out into a sprint.

The office was what might expect of a madman, though Smirke was nearly twenty years younger than he was imagining. Really, he didn’t look all that much older than Jonah himself. Every square inch of wall space was covered in diagrams detailing buildings done in trendy Gothic Revival – elaborate arches, spiraling turrets, a sense of almost frenzied devotion. That sort of thing always spoke of guilt to Jonah. Smirke glanced up at him from behind towers of paper and didn’t comment on his arrival. Jonah noted the slight but didn’t comment on it.

“Mr. Smirke,” he announced, head high. “I would like to apprentice myself to you.”

That seemed to capture his attention, even if it was only an iota. Jonah wondered how many people offered themselves to him. How many clerks were under his employ. He had to shyly admit that he didn’t really know how well-regarded Smirke was. He very well might be apprenticing himself to a madman.

“And what do you know of architecture?” Jonah felt seen. It was like Smirke stared right through him, past his fine clothes, and saw his entire history laid bare. Did he think this was no more than a passing whim? If so, Smirke was not an exceptional judge of character. His hands clenched into fists, though he hid them in his pockets.

He had expected that question, and already had an answer prepared. “I was taught by some of the most prolific instructors available all throughout my childhood.” It wasn’t a lie, really. He hadn’t been taught in architecture, but he had been taught in maths and history and some of the fledgling social sciences. Wasn’t that practically what architecture was? “I’ve always had profound interest in architecture.” Now, that was a lie.

That finally got Smirke to look up from his papers. Jonah could see that he was working on a blueprint, but … well, it looked like no building he had ever seen. It did not seem like it would obey the laws of physics. Smirke was drawing a building that seemed to be part of the woods: gaps between the trees and all. It made Jonah dizzy, and he rose his eyes to meet Smirke’s.

Smirke was not interested in what Jonah had to say. Jonah knew that he was about to be dismissed, and the idea that he might fail was unconscionable. His mouth went dry. His fists started to tremble in his pockets. No. No, he could not just be sent away like any other fool in the world. This was where he was meant to be. Surely Smirke could see that. And if he could not … Jonah’s eyes fell on Smirke’s desk. There were a few scalpels there, made for cleanly slicing paper away.

“What do you fear?”

Jonah’s head jerked up. Smirke had leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. His hands were folded just underneath his chin. He blinked rapidly at the man, and at first, his brain didn’t return anything other than the banal. He feared poverty. He feared sickness. He feared obscurity. He feared pain. “What keeps you from sleep?” Smirke continued, his voice sliding through Jonah’s mind. “What do you see in the dark?”

And there, Jonah knew the answer. “Death.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes I can’t sleep at night, because sleep is – sleep is the closest mortal experience to it. I can’t b-bear the … “

“The void?”

Jonah nodded. His heart was hammering in his chest; he had to close his eyes for fear of what might well up in them. He couldn’t stop thinking of it, now. That old spectre hanging over his shoulder. It did not chase him. All it had to do was remain patient. “I can’t conceive of a world without me in it,” he whispered, voice trembling.

When he opened his eyes to Smirke again, the architect was smiling.

At the time, of course, Jonah knew nothing of what Smirke was thinking. He would only find out decades later that Smirke had hired him out of sheer curiosity. Death was one of the most common fears, but he had never met someone so profoundly terrified by the sheer concept. It would prove to be a very interesting study indeed. Jonah was offered the apprenticeship.

Although he was apprenticed to Smirke for a total of ten years, the first year was relatively mundane. Jonah’s duties were split between domestic matters and travel. He found that he much preferred the latter. Jonah had never wanted to be anyone’s assistant, though any complaints given to his boss would result in Smirke threatening to send him away. So Jonah, for the first time in his life, kept his mouth shut.

There was something enigmatic about Smirke’s designs. While he never found anything quite so striking as the eye window, Jonah had to admit that some of his works spoke to different parts of him. He had to question his sanity the day that he was driven to almost violent irritation by a crude buttress. Smirke was a master of his craft. There was no doubt about that. And every letter Jonah received about the odd goings-on and supernatural phenomena in Smirke’s buildings – well. He took that as irrefutable proof.

For his part, Smirke saw something in the boy. He became more than a case study i n what Smirke had started to call The End. No, another fear altogether had marked him. The boy himself had no fear of it, but instead seemed to serve it . Coax power into it. No, Jonah Magnus was driven to Know – more than once, Smirke found his belongings rifled through. His staff complained of the feeling of being watched. Jonah himself asked increasingly prying questions about Smirke’s personal life and motivations.

This was a fear that Smirke was unfamiliar with, one that he had been paralyzingly close to falling victim to himself. Smirke began to take notes on Jonah’s behavio r. The boy’s insatiable curiosity belayed a deeper sort of hunger. Jonah no longer seemed to be satisfied with the petty secrets that suffused all of humanity. There, Smirke could understand that. After he started his real work … well, the world seemed to bore him, too.

B esides, the task that he found himself faced with was growing difficult to do alone. Smirke had separated these fears into six so far, with five more hypothesized, and … well. Who was to say how many there would be? Jonah, for his faults, was a bright boy. And currently his only research subject in what he had started to call the Eye. That was what most people remembered about Jonah, after all. Those eyes, staring right through them like steel. It took some months for Smirke to convince himself that Jonah was not actually the Eye, that he was no horrific fear god made into a man.

So, Jonah Magnus was brought in on the whole affair. He took to it like a fish to water.

Jonah had never found something so engrossing in his entire life. He threw himself into it, body and soul. He no longer returned to his room, instead preferring to sleep in a small cot in the back. He took explicit notes on everything that Smirke was able to uncover. The complaints he received concerning Smirke’s architecture were carefully filed away. Given one of Smirke’s buildings, Jonah could recite which entity it resonated with and the entire contents of the complaints given. He spoke with so-called psychics and turned most away, keeping several on retainer. He interviewed all the workers, and occasionally passersby on the street. People always praised him for his uncanny ability to take stories out of people. They always seemed so neat. So eloquent. So intimate. Jonah beamed with praise.

What he liked most of all, however, were meeting with others that gave themselves up in devotion to their Entity. If Jonah and Smirke disagreed on anything, it was Smirke’s insistence that they remain independent from these entities. This matter became more of a point of friction as the years progressed. Jonah often railed against Smirke’s meaningless scribble s in pursuit of a higher power. After ten years of off-and-on service to Robert Smirke, Jonah took up a position in Edinburgh to research these strange entities on his own – without the shackles of independence limiting his power. When he left, he took all of the contacts that he had made while under Robert Smirke’s employ.

Barnabas Bennett. Albrecht von Closen. Maxwell Rayner. Even, yes, Mordechai Lukas. All wealthy men who had dipped into the fears. Jonah considered them his friends and visited them frequently. He moved easily within their circles by virtue of his birth. And his powers, only just sprouting when he had been in London, began to bloom in Edinburgh. Jonah tested them on his friends, watching with glee as Mordechai spilled his darkest secrets to him without a second thought.

Of course, mundane little squabbles held no interest to Jonah except for blackmail. His real interest was in the power of these fears. From the statements that he uncovered in Edinburgh, he knew they were able to do impossible things. Jonah visited a home that had rotted to the ground overnight. Jonah discovered that the ‘werewolf’ myth in a tiny village was not a myth at all. A young girl that could turn rivers into broiling blood. These fears, when applied by a devout follower, could stop death. Bring the world to ruin.

That was where Jonah had gotten the idea. Smirke came the closest to performing an organized study, but he was so consumed by his architectural work. It required more than a man on the Board of Works. It required method. It required vigor.

It required … a library.

The idea came to him one day. So beautifully simple, Jonah couldn’t believe that nobody had ever thought of it before. A collection of research and observations into the esoteric and paranormal, the macabre and the strange. There, he would create a base of power for I-See-You, and he would be given the reward of immortality. The reward would be used to serve the Eye for eternity.

Of course, now Jonah knew better. He knew that there had been Institutes before his own. Different names, different Heads. Dozens of them. They had all failed for one reason or another. But even if he had known back then, it would not dissuade him. Jonah was different than other people, because he was better than other people. He was passionate and driven and intelligent. They failed only so Jonah could succeed.

From there, it was all a matter of history. Jonah wrote to his wealthy friends and told them of his plan. Over the years and as he approached middle age, he had learned exactly what they wanted to hear. It was as easy as if he were in the kitchen. A spongy base of subservience with a sprinkle of flattery. A roiling stew of fervor and passion. An acrid batter of blackmail and threat, garnished with a healthy amount of follow-through. It took Jonah less than a year to gather the money required to build the Magnus Institute. He built the library where his research had really began – Edinburgh. And, when it came time to leave this vessel for another, Jonah did so without tears and without hesitation. His eyes, he had always been told, were his most captivating feature anyway.

For its motto, Jonah chose the same principles that he lived by – and the threat that he gave to others who bristled under his power.

_Audio. Opperior. Vigilo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having Jonah minorly marked by the Lonely and Peter minorly marked by the Eye always tickled me pink.  
> Also, I have a lot of feelings about Jonah's backstory. I knew I would write it out at some point in this fic - and I felt like it was important to write a backstory where Jonah just isn't redeemable. He can be sympathetic in some ways, sure, but I didn't want to leave any room for any sort of redemption.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Minor eye injury  
> Murder-suicide attempt (by falling)

A blood vessel had burst in Jonah’s eye. The red seemed sickly violent against his gray iris. Veins rose in Jonah’s forehead; he panted in the bathroom mirror. He almost felt dizzy. His breathing was stuttered by the arrhythmic beating of his heart.

How strange, compelling himself. Jonah didn’t think he would be repeating the experience. Still, he didn’t back down. He glared into the mirror. If Elias Bouchard didn’t understand exactly what he was up against, Jonah could do no more for him.

Eventually, necessity and shaking legs made him leave the bathroom and collapse onto the bed. His hair was shorter. Not perhaps as neat as he would like it, but it most certainly was not hair that belonged to Elias Bouchard. Jonah curled up on the bed and allowed his muscles to rest. Autocannibalism, that had been. Dreadful. He felt hollowed out on the inside, and the remaining liquid sloshed around like a ship on uneven waters.

He heard sounds on the stairs and didn’t reach his fingers up to his face. Everything seemed raw, tender. And besides, who else could it be but Peter Lukas?

Peter didn’t know anything about him, not really. Although Peter was more curious than he would admit, Jonah always politely pivoted away from any questions about his original body. That had been a time in his life fraught with weakness, and he had no inclination for Peter to exploit them. Besides, he had extracted the most remarkable parts of his history and repeated them frequently for Institute visitors eager to learn about the founder.

“You look like hell,” Peter remarked cheerfully from the doorway. A chill swept into the room. Jonah was grateful for that. His stomach was still in knots and he could’ve sworn that he had a fever. The world seemed to spin; Jonah closed his eyes. _Feels like seasickness,_ Jonah mused. Peter would appreciate the comparison, which is why he didn’t say it aloud. “Drink too much?”

Jonah could hear Peter step by him and into the bathroom. “No.” In fact, he thought he might do with a drink – and then his stomach turned again and he decided against it. He hadn’t ever compelled himself, had never had any reason to, and he most certainly wouldn’t repeating the practice. Christ, acting in anger never worked out well for him, did it? But he hoped the brat had at least been put in his place. “Elias tried to kill me.”

“Oh! Did he? With what?” Peter’s tone wavered nothing short of chipper. “You’ve made an awful mess in here.”

Jonah cracked his eyes open. Peter was standing in front of mirror where Elias had cut his hair. He ran the water to clear the sink before reaching for Jonah’s shaving kit. Jonah didn’t stop him. Peter was rude and pushy and fundamentally unable to be changed. “My straight razor,” Jonah murmured. “He was going to gouge my eyes out with it.” If there was a note of self-pity in his voice, neither men pointed it out.

“With your _straight razor!”_ Through his nearly-shut eyes, Jonah could see that Peter had applied a decent amount of shaving cream to his face. It was too much to hope that Peter was shaving the entire thing off, just tending to the stray patches here and there. For an emissary of loneliness, Peter could be a vain thing. Peter pinched the handle of his straight razor between his fingers and squinted at it. “You’ll have a damn hard time trying to gouge someone’s eyes out with a straight razor.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“The tip is blunt.”

“I know.”

“You’d have to use it as a wedge.” Jonah watched as Peter manipulated the razor in a series of fashions, gouging out an imaginary eye. He let out a huff of breathless amusement and shut his eyes. At least the nausea was passing and the fever was cooling. Jonah found that he didn’t much want Peter to leave. The idea of being in a warm bedroom was distasteful.

“Where have you been, then?” He took another pillow and shoved it under his head, before clutching the original to his chest. Better. What was it about nausea and fevers that made his body feel like it’d been wrung through a printing press? “On the _Tundra?”_

Peter grunted in the affirmative. He heard Peter start to shave, occasionally blotting at his face with one of the washcloths near the sink. “Nearly done, they say. Course, they wouldn’t tell me otherwise, would they?”

“Could haul one of them out here and have me talk to them.”

“ _No,_ no. Want to keep them on the ship. They might like being off it too much.” At that, Jonah had to agree. The only reason Peter maintained control over such a large crew of people was their intentional sedation aboard the _Tundra._ “Unless you want to get on it yourself?”

Jonah snorted in derision at the very idea.

The sink again and Jonah heard the sounds of a more persistent toweling at his face. He thought about raising his voice again to demand that Peter at least clean his mess from the sink, but before he could open his mouth, the bed dipped.

There was a wet cloth at his ear. Jonah remembered how he’d nicked the tip of it with the scissors. The cloth was moved down his ear, over his cheek, and on his neck. The water was cold and Jonah flinched. He had been shifted when the bed moved under Peter’s knee, causing another wave of nausea to hit him. He stopped himself from snapping at Peter, because … well, it _did_ feel nice.

“There you are. What, he forget where the eyes are located?”

No need for Peter to know the truth, really? That Jonah had lost his temper a tad? “He’s a frightened brat.”

Peter’s presence was proving advantageous, clearly. That, and Jonah found himself growing increasingly nervous about being in the bedroom alone. Three out of the four episodes had started here so far, and who was to say that Elias wouldn’t take advantage of his weakened state? And, what was worse, he had done this to himself. _Foolish,_ foolish. He was too old to be have his temper flare like this.

Additionally, the idea of writhing here in some discomfort, alone, with nothing to take his mind off it … was unpleasant.

“Peter,” Jonah muttered from the bed. “There’s a novel in the nightstand drawer. First one.” He heard the rolling of the drawer open, and the novel tossed onto the bed. “Read it to me. There’s a bookmark.”

Utter silence from his husband. Jonah could only imagine what was going around in his little head. The Lukases were not the sort that consumed any form of the humanities. Even the decorations in their homes could only be charitably be called ‘art’. Reading seemed to be the top of the list of things to avoid. Lukases preferred to sit and make themselves _feel_ alone, and not try to distract themselves from the fact.

“Have I got to?” Peter’s voice had started to grow petulant again.

“Yes.” Jonah tried to make his voice sound commanding, but the raspy, weak noise that erupted from his throat was anything but. Still, Peter let out a slight annoyed huff and sat on the bed. He kicked his feet onto it to stretch out his legs. Jonah could hear that he hadn’t even bothered to take off his boots. How charming.

Jonah cracked his eyes open to look up at Peter. This close, and curled up as he was, Peter looked like he towered all the way up to the ceiling. His beard was looking much neater; patches of his cheeks were still wet. Peter wrinkled his nose up in distaste. “Christ, looks like the demon in your brain is trying to escape out of your eyes.”

“So kind to your husband,” Jonah returned wryly, but with no real venom. He turned his head so that the bridge of his nose and his forehead were pressed against the outside of Peter’s thigh. Peter, as he always did, smelt reassuringly of frost and evergreen. It was enough to banish some of the lingering thoughts at the corner of his mind and steady his spirit. “Go on.”

Peter’s reading voice was hesitant and slow, with mispronounced words and awkward emphases. Jonah didn’t comment on it. Indeed, as Peter read, Jonah felt himself slowly start to relax. Peter’s voice was soothing, even unintentionally so. At some point, Peter had taken his other hand and rested it against the top of Jonah’s head. His thumb caressed the hair above his ear, as steady as the _Tundra._ Jonah just focused on Peter’s voice and the occasional turn of pages. The malaise sept out of his body, replaced by sleep.

***

It was getting a little too _affectionate_ for Peter’s tastes. He’d realized that early on, when he agreed to read out Jonah’s ridiculous smut book. There were a dozen ways Peter could justify it to himself, him agreeing. He wanted to stave off Jonah’s temper, he wanted to stay on Jonah’s good side, he didn’t really have anything better to do anyway. But the logical fact of the matter was that Peter said yes before he even really thought about it, and suddenly, he was reading filth on the bed with his husband practically cuddling his leg. It was small comfort to know that, if Jonah had been conscious, he would have been horrified at being caught in such a position.

Peter recognized it as too affectionate, and he stayed for twenty minutes longer anyway.

Looking at them, nobody in their right mind would guess how much older Jonah actually was than Peter. Peter didn’t know his exact age, but given that Jonah had known Mordechai Lukas – conservatively 150 years older? 150 years to practice his craft. To discipline himself into something his patron would want. Comparatively … well, comparatively, Peter was just getting started in all of this. His only advantage over Jonah was that he’d been born into his legacy, and Jonah created his. In his weaker moments, though, Peter just wondered if that just meant he believed in his less.

Four siblings of his. Two of them left and two of them gone. Not like they were close, but Peter wondered if that meant something. Some sort of change within the Lukas family legacy. He never had a rebellious phase, not really. Sometimes, Peter felt like whatever he did, he was performing exactly as expected. Nobody had ever called Peter Lukas a disappointment. Well, Jonah had, but that was practically a term of endearment coming from him.

He had never had any urge to check on the ones that had gone. There was a peace to what he did, and he was good at it, and he liked the thrill of serving his patron as much as the man next to him. He supposed his little moments of weakness were just … surprises, of course. A surprise that he was still human enough to feel the impulses that most people on Earth felt. They were happening less frequently now. Peter didn’t put too much stock into what that meant.

The idea of a Ritual actually _excited_ him. Peter had plans pulled together that he would set into action the moment he arrived to London. And that would be it, then, the end of the world. Rewritten by the Lonely. Peter recalled the serenity and isolation he felt aboard the _Tundra._ The idea of that being the new normal _far_ outweighed the strange prickling of his heart when his husband fell asleep next to him. Hell, he couldn’t even be sure the latter wasn’t indigestion.

Twenty missed passed regardless, and Peter couldn’t answer for them.

Jonah had fallen asleep, his slender body gone slack. He hoped that it would be Jonah when he woke up, too. That Elias fellow. Talk about a suicidal lemming.

Gingerly, Peter detached Jonah’s arms from around him and got himself off the bed. The book was placed upside down on the nightstand. Feeling a headache brewing at his temples, Peter removed his glasses and everything softened into blurry bliss. Reading was terrible. Exquisitely, awfully terrible. He set them on the nightstand and thrust the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing, before drawing them away.

Jonah looked half-dead like that, limp and sprawled out. He considered him carefully before returning to the bathroom, rummaging through Jonah’s shaving kit again. There was a small hand mirror in there. He pocketed it. Could be useful. They couldn’t rely on the decorative mirrors forever, could they?

Peter left Penbrooke Manor entirely, feeling the bracing foggy air hit his lungs. Jonah sometimes thought he sought out warmth because he was always cold. And the cold _was_ uncomfortable, to be sure. No doubt a hedonist like Jonah tried to keep himself as warm as possible. But there was a brilliant point to the cold where everything went numb, and Peter did find a certain pleasure in that.

Outside, he could see his ship still waiting there. Peter had begun to see it more as a decorative eyesore than anything seaworthy. How long did it take to fix the bottom part of the boat, _really?_ When he’d last been there, the crew had been up to their knees in water at the bottom of the ship. There hadn’t been any urgency in their actions, but they had been quite confused and very wet. Peter had been so disgusted that he’d stomped back up to the Manor – not because Jonah was a sympathetic ear, but at least Jonah knew the struggles involved with _managing_ people.

He walked along the shoreline. It wasn’t accurate to call this place an island, really. An island implied a certain size. Peter could’ve seen it from end to end if there hadn’t been any hills in the way. It looked much like a Lukas ancestor had called the minimum amount of land necessary from the sea and plucked Penbrooke at the very top of the hill. Peter liked that sort of efficiency. Frills added unnecessary distraction. He didn’t know _which_ ancestor, exactly, had built the Manor. Family history was not widely taught in the Lukas family.

Peter stared up at the towering cliff from his spot on the shoreline. At the very, very top, he could see the dark shingles of the Mansard roof. Was that an optical illusion, or did it look like the house was leaning over? Ready to fall into the ocean? Wouldn’t _that_ be something, Peter considered. Think of the terror one might feel.

Behind him, the ocean pulsed listlessly onto the shore. Foam lapped up around the bottoms of his shoes. There didn’t seem to be a tide so much as the sea occasionally throwing water forward from sheer obligation. He looked up to see the slate gray sea fade into the fog. Peter hadn’t so much as seen an insect since he’d stepped foot there. That was the way it ought to be. What was a holiday when you had to deal with _wildlife?_ And this, if unintentional and sudden, sort of counted as a holiday. As much as one that Peter was ever willing to take.

It wasn’t so much that Peter was a workaholic, but the disruption of his work was more distressing than any sort of relaxation itself. Besides, once an Avatar got powerful enough, they all practically did the same thing anyway.

He turned from the shore and stopped by the dock, staring up at the old gangway to the _Tundra._ Again, Peter clucked his tongue to himself. He had been quite close, hadn’t he? But it all worked out for the best, especially now that Jonah was going to let his Ritual proceed unimpaired. Peter supposed that he deserved it. He was keeping Jonah from dying, after all.

Well, sort of. He was hardly keeping an eagle eye on him, but he wasn’t actively trying to murder him. That counted for something. Unless Jonah died when Peter was around, then nothing would really count anymore.

Peter looked back up towards the Manor and sighed. He probably ought to get back and check on Jonah, a task that nobody in the world would want.

He got about halfway up the hill before he heard the slam of the backdoor to the manor. A figure in dark clothing dashed away, towards the very edge of the cliff overlooking the sea.

Unless Jonah had had a stunning change of heart, Elias had woken up again. “Oh – _damn it!”_ Peter cursed, breaking out into a sprint. There wasn’t any chance that he could catch up to Elias before he reached the top of the cliff; he doubted the fastest man in the world himself could have made it. Nevertheless, Peter ran, his coat billowing back behind him.

Elias was running haphazardly, tripping over himself and landing on his hands and knees multiple times on the grass. He wasn’t in anything more than his stocking feet and the grass was slick, but that still wasn’t going to give Peter enough time. Peter’s heart started to thud in his ears. Oh, _damn it._ Damn it, what was he going to do? Vanishing wasn’t possible. He could only go where people were not, and Elias/Jonah – at least in the eyes of the Lonely – was a person that _was._

Elias reached the top of the cliff and his hands jutted out, as if retaining his balance. He peered down, seeing how deceptively high they were, and that below the cliff was a good bit of shoreline. Not the ocean. Peter watched Elias drag his hands through his hair in agonized indecision. “ _Elias!”_ Peter barked out, slowing to a jog when he got close.

Elias’ spine straightened at hearing him, and he turned around. The boy seemed close to hyperventilation, his chest heaving and falling in great gasps. “Don’t – don’t come any closer!”

Strange how he could tell the two men apart by just their voice. Jonah’s voice was a touch lower, slower, more sophisticated (pedantic). Elias’ voice sounded like he was a twelve-year-old waiting on his first chin hair. Either way, listening to him wasn’t going to happen. “Don’t do anything foolish, now,” Peter thundered. His voice may have been kind, but the fog had started to gather around them. The dew that Peter had been traipsing through started to harden into frost.

Elias took a half-step back, his foot tripping on the pebbly dust. Behind him was only open air. There was nowhere left to go.

“What do you think is going to happen here, exactly? You’re not going to get your body back if you throw yourself over this cliff.”

“He’s a _monster!”_ Elias blurted out, his hands thrown out to his sides as if shouting to the heavens. “He’s hurt – he’s hurt so many people, and he’s never cared about anyone except for himself. Ever.”

“Now, all that may be true, but – “

“But _what!”_

“You’re still going to die,” Peter said simply. The grass had frozen solid at his feet, and when he took another step forward, his boot crunched the blades flat.

It was hard to make out much of Elias’ face without his glasses, but when he spoke again, Peter knew instantaneously that he was crying. “ _So?”_ He asked miserably. “I’m already dead. I don’t think that there’s some – some m-magic - “ Cutting himself off, Elias just sniffed hard. “But I have to stop him. I think this is my last chance. What he wants to do, it’s – I think …I think he might want to end the world.”

Oh? Oh, _that_ was something, wasn’t it? Cunning old Jonah, pretending to be above conducting his own Ritual. Peter supposed that he didn’t really have proof that Jonah had never conducted one before, but then again, it was hard to conceive of Jonah Magnus failing _anything._ That was just his way. If he didn’t succeed, he’d just change the rules.

Which made the idea of _him_ conducting a Ritual even more ominous. Little twerp.

Still, they had made an agreement, and Peter certainly wanted to see Jonah’s end saw through. He gave a curt shake of his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re _both_ monsters! I, I can’t – “ Elias took a deep breath and looked back over his shoulder. Doubtless that the fog obscured his vision and how far the drop truly was. Peter focused for a moment, his vision growing even blurrier, and the fog started to clear away from around them. He could see the ocean spread out around them, and – perhaps most importantly – the jagged rocks on the shoreline before.

That was clearly not enough to deter Elias, though perhaps enough to convince him not to fall face first. He stood with his back towards the edge of the cliff, staring at Peter. Peter could even see Jonah’s slate-gray eyes staring back at him, but he’d never seen them so frightened. “G – go fuck yourself, the _both_ of you.”

And then Elias began to fall back.

Peter leapt forward and seized him by the front of his shirt. He’d managed to get farther than Peter would’ve liked. At nearly a 45-degree angle, it didn’t look like Elias could right himself without falling entirely. His feet were on the ground, but only just.

Frantic, Elias raised his hands to pull at Peter’s wrist. “What are you _doing!?”_

Elias’ white dress shirt was balled in his fist. Peter braced one leg on the very edge of the cliff, bringing his other hand to his pocket and rummaging around. Elias continued trying to pull Peter’s hand away, but Peter hardly felt it. His hand had gone numb from the cold.

There it was. Peter’s fingers closed around the mirror and brought it out, practically shoving it in Elias’ face. Elias uttered a sharp “ _no!”_ as if he’d been stung, squeezing his eyes tight, but it was too late for that.

Elias’ entire body went slack, his legs giving out beneath him. Peter hadn’t been expecting _that._ He was strong, but he had been relying on Elias supporting at least _some_ of his body weight. The mirror was dropped as Peter wrenched his other hand forward. Peter held onto his shirt with both of his hands, but Jonah was too far back for him to really pull him forward into safety.

A second passed and Jonah’s eyes were fluttering open. At first, he didn’t enunciate anything, just a soft _“hm?”_ of confusion. His head lolled to the side and Jonah must have seen what lay in wait for him at the bottom, because he snapped to attention. The mirror Peter had dropped clattered and screeched against the cliffside, before shattering on the sharp rocks below.

“ _Peter!?”_ Jonah squeaked in alarm, his feet scrabbling for purchase against the dirt. It was the most frightened noise that he’d ever heard Jonah make in his life, almost desperately plaintive. Jonah’s hands went to Peter’s hands and he got his legs solid on the ground beneath him.

That was enough purchase for Peter to yank Jonah up. Jonah stumbled forward at once, right into Peter’s chest. There was no feigning distance, now. In a gesture not dissimilar to Peter’s, Jonah gripped the front of Peter’s coat and held on tightly. Peter rose his arms and put them around Jonah’s shoulders protectively. He was in no danger of falling over, but _lord,_ clearly it was better to be safe than sorry. Peter clutched him close and Jonah didn’t push him away.

Jonah was breathing very, very quickly, wasn’t he? His arms tightened, almost enveloping the young man inside his torso. That had been close. That had been far too close. What kind of crazy maniac was Elias Bouchard, anyway? Peter could only chalk it up to the youths and their denial about death. No reason in their tawny little heads. There was no need for all that dramatics, and certainly no need for _profanity._

“Oh, _god – “_ He just heard Jonah shudder against his chest, murmuring the words as if it were a prayer. “Oh _god_ oh god oh god – “

Must have been spun up about it, and who could blame him? Jonah would never let himself be seen in such a state otherwise. Peter gave a thought about bringing a bit of the Lonely closer, wrapping Jonah up in that cotton numbness, but Jonah always threw such a fuss about that. He refused point-blank to get on his ship, when Peter was _moderately_ certain that he would be fine if Peter willed it. No, instead he used himself to shield Jonah from the outside world. One arm raised from his shoulder to cup Jonah’s skull, pressing him against his chest.

“It’s alright,” Peter rumbled. It was the strangest thing. Peter could feel Jonah practically trembling in his arms. He’d never thought the man even capable of that. “It’s alright, pet, you’re alright.”

The affection felt sickly strange on his tongue, but so was Jonah’s terror. He would trade one for the other. He stood there, arms around him, occasionally murmuring soft platitudes. Had to have been a few minutes, at least, even it felt like an eternity before Jonah stopped shaking and just started to rest. His breathing evened out to something nearing normal. The man had broken out in a cold sweat, and Peter figured he must have been freezing to death. “Come on, let’s get you back into the Manor, yeah?” He offered, giving Jonah just enough space to make his question heard. “Warm you up.” A roaring fire and a spot of liquid warmth looked like it would _really_ do Jonah some good.

Jonah nodded and released Peter’s shirt. His entire face had gone pale, and he wasn’t meeting Peter’s eyes. Shame, Peter figured. How many men could say that they’d seen Jonah Magnus cry and lived to see the tale? He would’ve worn it as a badge of honor, if tears of all sorts didn’t make him want to vanish at once. As it was, Peter had already vowed not to bring this up ever again to himself. He hardly wanted to relive this moment of … intimacy.

Eurgh.

Jonah stepped back and brought his hands up to his eyes. He rubbed them before scrubbing down his face, eliminating all tear tracks by rendering his face completely red. Then, Jonah pressed his fingers up to his temple – what was _that_ all about? Looked like he was activating the microchip in his brain.

Jonah huffed out a breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “He’s gone,” he whispered. Peter, who had turned on his heel to start walking back to the manor, looked over his shoulder. Jonah had straightened his back and looked like he was pulling himself together.

“Elias?”

A nod. “Given up, it seems.”

Peter pursed his lips, nodding to himself. The world had gone blissfully quiet around them. While the fog had not rolled in to its usual severity yet, the Penbrooke Manor was nevertheless surrounded with a blanket of silence. “He seemed rather frantic, when I spoke to him.”

“Did he?”

“Suppose tossing yourself off the nearest cliff is the last resort.”

“The longer he remained in my mind, the harder it would have been for him to retain control.” Jonah moved to fall in step beside him. He had folded his arms in front of his body protectively, a way to protect himself from the cold. His shirt was hopelessly rumpled. One of the buttons had popped off sometime in the fray. “Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.”

They began to walk together. Their feet cracked the frozen grass. Every so often, Jonah would wince. “Where is he now?” Peter asked, curious. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d gotten the idea that he’d _see_ Elias leave Jonah’s body. A wisp of air or, _something._

Jonah shrugged his shoulders casually, shaking his head. “That, I don’t know and can’t ask my patron for. The answer it returns is … complex. Any answer involving death is.” He was speaking like he had forgotten Peter was there. “He might be completely dead. He might be there but immobile. The practical difference is nil.”

“Gruesome way to go,” Peter considered. Sounded like his own personal hell. He couldn’t imagine spending a very literal lifetime, trapped and unable to communicate in someone _else’s_ mind. Never one moment without company. Peter thought he understood Elias more in that moment than he ever had before. _He’d_ want toss himself over a cliff, too.

Jonah wasn’t so convinced. “I don’t know. Life without all the difficult parts, I imagine. No decisions to make. No risks to take. Just watching and listening.” Peter had approached the back door and held it open. Without acknowledging it, Jonah stepped inside. “Not the life I would choose for myself, but not the worst thing that could happen.”

The conversation was cut short as Jonah nearly fell on his face. The ice on his socks had melted quickly inside Penbrooke Manor, and Peter jutted an arm forward to catch Jonah by his waist. When Jonah righted himself, he murmured a pensive word of thanks before going to sit by the fire in the den.

That had been something, hadn’t it. Peter watched Jonah retreat and heard him poke at the fire, before a log fell into place and released a shower of embers. He stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes longer, taking the brandy and pouring two helping glasses of it. As an afterthought, he just tucked the bottle inside of his coat jacket. Somehow, he thought Jonah just might be needing it.

Jonah had curled up on the chair that Peter had been in the previous night, his knees just managing to hang off the arm of it. He accepted the glass of brandy without so much as a word. Peter found his chair and sat in it. He lit his pipe and watched his husband. Jonah was squinting into the fire like he was trying to have a conversation with it, but he didn’t speak a word for some time.

That suited Peter just fine, all things considered. He’d been _quite_ affectionate with Jonah before, and it clung to him like terrible perfume. The cigar smoke and the brandy did enough to will it away, but Peter worried there might come a time where he’d never be able to get it off. All the more reason to keep his visits with Jonah sparing.

“I’m not going to be very good company,” Jonah addressed to the fire plainly. Peter wasn’t all that convinced he’d opened his mouth to take anything other than a long draw of brandy. “If you’d like to spirit away back to the _Tundra,_ or somewhere else.”

If it was a subtle invitation to leave, Peter didn’t take the hint. “You’re never very good company, Jonah.”

Jonah took another drink and dipped his head, as if agreeing with him. “I dislike doing this, you know.” His eyes were in the fire. “Migrating to another vessel. Gaps in the armor. I’ve nearly died more times in the past few days than I have in over one hundred years.” Jonah frowned at himself. “One has to wonder if it’s sheer chance or if I’m beginning to slip.”

Peter had been born in the 1940s. He really had no advice to give a man that had been born sometime in the late 18th century, beyond that it would be a very dangerous day indeed when Jonah Magnus started to become anything less than cruel and methodical. Instead, Peter had a question. “You plan on doing this forever? Hopping bodies whenever it suits you?”

The philosophies of Simon Fairchild and Jonah Magnus had never really appealed to Peter. To any of the Lukases, he figured, because if they had – well, he wouldn’t be sitting there. Immortality? Living forever? Think about all the people he’d have to meet. All the crowds he’d have to see. All the business he’d have to do. No, at the end of life, it was customary for a Lukas to just fade into the fog. Blissful contented nothingness forever, the same sort that he encountered on a daily basis. Peter didn’t fear death because he’d already seen it for himself. Wasn’t all that bad.

For the first time since he’d sat down, Jonah turned his head to look at him. He half-grinned. Elias Bouchard had dimples on that side of his face. “Well, I suppose I will – at least until one of the Rituals succeed, hm?”

Peter frowned.

Jonah stood from his chair and drained the rest of the brandy in the glass. “It’s been a long day, Peter, and I think I’m going to go up to bed. If you want to come up and join me, fine, but don’t stomp around.” He crossed over to where Peter was sitting and grasped the brandy bottle by the neck. Jonah stood up straight for a second, lost in thought. Then, gently, he leaned over and pressed a kiss against the corner of Peter’s mouth.

“Thank you for your help today, darling,” Jonah whispered. He cupped Peter’s cheek for just a second – ran a thumb over his scratchy beard – and then he turned to walk upstairs.

The fire was cold in the hearth before Peter got up to join him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter you're so bad at watching your husband, now look at what you've done you've re-traumatized the traumatizer


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

The _Tundra_ was fixed late the following afternoon. Jonah privately supposed that it likely had been fixed earlier, but it wasn’t as if the crew was going to come off the boat to inform Peter. Peter was cheered by the news regardless and wanted to set off. He was already, according to him, so behind schedule.

So foolish. Who, exactly, was going to sit down and demand to know why Peter was behind a schedule – if such a thing even existed?

But Jonah didn’t complain. He wanted to set off himself. After the unfortunate incident yesterday, Jonah wanted nothing more than to throw himself back in his work. He had already wasted the morning doing exactly nothing of value. Jonah had woken much earlier than Peter had, and contented himself by propping his head up on his elbow and simply watching for some time. Peter looked practically normal in sleep.

Prying a little further, Jonah noted that he wasn’t dreaming at all. Peter Lukas’ sleep was nothing more than a stifling gray fog. He probably slept better than anyone, Jonah noted with a hint of jealousy. Certainly more deeply. How pleasant to see that Peter hadn’t simply vanished away in the middle of the night, but between the two of them – well, Peter had far more weak spots than he could ever think to admit. _Dear,_ dear, what would Mummy and Daddy Lukas have thought if they saw some of the feelings that Peter buried deep down his own mind?

He had kept track of the Lukas siblings who left. Frankly, he’d been surprise by how well-adjusted they became after leaving the other Lukases behind. Partners, children, a family of their very own. Jonah looped one of Peter’s curls around his fingers and wondered if Peter would be disgusted or jealous.

After watching Peter sleep lost its appeal, Jonah had finished the rest of his romance novel. Happily ever after, until one of the boring mundane secrets that seemed so _pointless_ to him ripped them apart. Or they died, in which case the love was worthless anyway. He closed the book and slid it into the nightstand. Perhaps, should he ever have reason to return to Penbrooke Manor, he would read it again and see if his opinions had changed.

In the meanwhile, Peter had gotten up. Jonah hadn’t received much more than a grunt of greeting before Peter stumbled off into the shower. Well, he supposed a decent family didn’t breed good manners. Then again, as compared to his ancestors – Peter Lukas was practically a family man. Sharing a _bed_ with his husband? What a calamity.

Usually, Jonah would have needled Peter, if only because he could. But yesterday was still too fresh in his mind.

_Damn it._ Coming to, held aloft only by Peter’s trembling arms? It had been terrifying. Falling seemed an exquisitely terrible way to go. The truth of the matter was, if it hadn’t been for Peter’s influence, Jonah would be … dead. He didn’t like putting his life in the hands of another. Thankfully, Peter didn’t have the people skills required to guilt him about it. And, frankly, Jonah would rely on the odds of Peter forgetting the whole thing after a few months aboard the _Tundra_ anyway.

He had allowed Peter to perform his morning ablutions in peace, even going so far as to prepare breakfast for the two of them. A sign of his thanks, minor as it was. _Domesticity._ Lord, his father would be appalled, and that did warm Jonah’s heart.

Jonah finished preparing and eating breakfast, and Peter still hadn’t come down. He went back upstairs to the bedroom and found that Peter had vanished – but he could hear the sounds of Peter walking downstairs, somewhere near the kitchen. Jonah had to suppress a roll of his eyes while he prepared for the day. Peter’s limit for sentimentality was low, and his preferred method of avoidance was nothing more complex than the average primary school student. Jonah thought that with less venom than usual.

An hour later, ready to depart, Jonah had come down to the pier. The clouds had cleared up above, yielding a bright blue sky for the first time since Jonah had been there. Pity that the temperature hadn’t cooperated. Wind flicked his hair this way and that. The water was bluer than he remembered and twice as choppy than the first time he’d come over. Jonah peered into it curiously. He hoped this wouldn’t delay his trip overmuch. His bag was already placed in his boat. Maybe the villagers would be curious why the sloppy, hungover looking man in a hoodie had gone to the island and a poised suited man had returned – but Jonah didn’t think their curiosity would get them anywhere. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets to defend against the cold.

“Sure you don’t want a ride back?” A voice boomed from the gangway. Jonah turned around to see his husband walking down. Each step curved he board underneath his weight, but Peter’s steps were certain. “Water looks rough.”

Peter looked like he was in a good mood. Jonah turned towards the gangplank and stared at the ship. It looked considerably less imposing without the fog there. Just a big pile of metal and rust. Not all that frightening. But then again, everything in artifact storage was perfectly mundane if you squinted at them hard enough and blamed your sudden injuries on bad luck. “The speedboat will suit my needs just as well, thank you.”

And then, to his surprise, Peter tugged him closer by the crook of his arm and pressed a kiss on the top of his head. Jonah fixed him with a look like he’d never seen Peter Lukas in his life.

“Just been a good break from everything, that’s all.” Peter went to go stand by Jonah, his own hands stuffed into his pockets. “I nearly saw you die. What’s not to be pleased about that?”

Jonah was not in the mood for Peter’s attempts at humor. He shot him a glare that Peter didn’t notice, before returning his gaze to the channel ahead of him. He had the foresight to check how the Magnus Institute was doing before he came down to the pier. All was well. Even Gertrude Robinson had more-or-less returned to normal, ever eager to stop the next Ritual. Jonah preferred to keep her in that state of blindness, for now.

It was wonderful to have his mind be his own again. No frantic scrabbling at the back of his skull. The sensation really made Jonah feel like it was his _own_ body. He’d gotten used to the limbs, the center of gravity. He’d even thought in the shower about the colors of his replacement wardrobe. And, even better, he would have this body for decades. No need to risk all this happening again.

Why, it was enough to make a man jolly.

“And you’ve just been such delightful company, Peter.” Jonah turned to face his husband. He reached out to re-adjust the lapels on his coat fastidiously, an act that Peter endured with good humor. Peter, Jonah fancied idly, was not a bad-looking man. Not at all. “You’ll have to tell me when you’re in London next.”

“Mm,” Peter returned. Both men knew that Peter would do no such thing. As always, if Jonah required his presence, he would find a way to get in contact. Jonah didn’t think it would be for some months longer. Being away from his work for days made him eager to get back into it, and Peter – for better or for worse – was a distraction and a risk.

Jonah dropped his fussing. “And when you do, what is my name going to be?”

“I don’t see why I’ve got to go along with it. It’s not like I generally see other people _with_ you.” But, despite his complaint, Peter nodded once. “Elias Bouchard.”

_Good boy._ “That’s it. Now, give us a kiss before you go.”

If there was something that Jonah disliked this body, it was definitely the need to get up on the tips of his toes to reach Peter’s face. Peter certainly wouldn’t grant him an ounce of charity by leaning down, would he? Regardless, Peter’s hands went to press against Jonah’s sides as Jonah briefly embraced him. Moments like this, Peter rarely argued against. Jonah presumed that the allure of a last kiss before sailing off into unknown waters was too strong to resist.

His lips buzzed when he dropped back down onto his heels. The domestic warmth of a body next to him was something that he hadn’t often experienced in his life. Sometimes Jonah idly wondered how things might have changed, if they had.

Peter walked back up the gangway instead of vanishing onto the vessel. Jonah turned to watch the _Tundra_ set off. From the outside, the _Tundra_ was a big noisy thing. Ships of that size had to be. Required a lot of work to float a beast of that size. On the inside, though, Jonah didn’t have to wonder too hard about what it was like. Utter silence. Peter at the wheel. Practically a living ghost story.

The _Tundra_ sailed away, growing smaller and smaller on the horizon. Jonah wanted to wait until its disruption to the water completely passed, but he found himself waiting a few minutes longer than that. It was only when the _Tundra_ vanished completely that Jonah snapped himself out of his haze and stepped onto the speedboat.

Holidays were all well and good, and even company could be excused. But Jonah always had a grander plan in mind, and there was nothing in the world that could stop him from that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending!   
> What started as a pseudo-Jekyll-and-Hyde AU quickly ballooned to something longer than actual Jekyll and Hyde, with the most dysfunctional relationship that never was. 💀 Am I feeling creatively antsy because there's only five episodes left and no fluffy post-S5 AUs can sate my terror? Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> As a note, if you're seeing this as soon as I post it - I'm posting this entire work in one go, not serializing it or anything. Might take me a bit to work out some editing/CW things.


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